The Last Rider: Part One

COMING OFF THE TRAIL

A CHILL RAIN FELL LIGHTLY, steadily. Mose Traven rode with his head down, water dripping and blowing off the broad brim of his worn, dirty hat. His thick-backed pony ambled along the mud-gravely path surrounded by scrub brush and young oak and elm trees. It was late afternoon although nearly as dark as dusk and he hunched in the saddle, wet and tired. There was no sound save for the soft thudding of the horse’s hooves on the soggy trail and the animal’s occasional snorting breath.

Slogging along, he let his mind drift, fill up with images of the recent past, and so he didn’t hear the first sound in the trees beside the narrow, beaten path. The noise was like heavier rain hitting the leaves, harder, closer, then followed by the cracking of what could have been mistaken for thunder – thunder rolling fast after the electrifying flash of nearby lightning. The leaves splattered nearby. The air boomed.

“Hellfire.”

He cried out, understanding at last the meaning of the loud rain that snapped twigs on either side of him and caused his buckskin pony to snort in fear and jerk forward on the reins. With a sharp jab of his spurs against the horse’s solid flanks, he drove the animal to the lead it sought on its own.

“Go, Buster. Get up.”

He needn’t have admonished the horse, for it galloped now in that horse’s way of escaping a leg- or side-biting predator. It breathed heavily, ears pricked, legs pounding the earth with strong, powerful strides. In moments, rider and horse were far down the trail. Coming out of thick foliage and into a clearing populated by several large gray boulders, he spurred Buster toward the largest of the rocks and reined him in on its back side.

Leaping down, Mose pulled a rifle from beside the saddle, worked the lever to cock and load it, and edged around the side of the rock to see who or what was behind. A round hammered the stone near his face and he pulled his head back just in time to avoid a spray of loosened gravel from the rock surface. To one side, he saw a thick scrub bush and quickly tied the horse tight to it. The last thing he wanted was for the animal to bolt in fear and leave him out there alone, on foot.

“Easy, boy.” He patted the horse. “I’m just going to go around this other side and try to see who’s doin’ the shooting. You take it easy, now.” The horse snorted low and looked a little wild-eyed but settled down some at the quiet talk.

Slowly, Mose moved up to the back side of the rock beyond the horse. Never give a shooter the same shot, he remembered his old sergeant from the 3rd Missouri Mounted Infantry saying right before the battle of Westport when he had just been a boy – a boy conscripted into an army and a war he shouldn’t even have been a part of.

Easing himself around the boulder, he took a quick look in the direction from where the shots had come. He could see nothing in the gloaming. It was getting darker and he didn’t want to be caught out alone come nightfall.

It was probably a Kiowa hunting party or, he hoped not, marauding Comanches. They seldom made it this far north and east, but there had been a big ruckus the past year between cattle drivers and the Indians out in west Texas so he had tried to stay on his toes about the trouble and did his best to avoid Indians.

He had no individual quarrel with Indians and no designs on their land, but he understood they wouldn’t know that and might view him as just another thieving white man. As a personal policy, he skirted the tribes and their territory as best he could.

When there hadn’t been a shot in several minutes, he began to think that whoever was out there might be trying to sneak up on him. He took a moment to survey his surroundings. Behind was more bushes and a couple of smaller boulders and beyond that a small drop off. It might provide enough protection so he could make a run in that direction and then swing back in a mile or so over onto the Ft. Smith trail.

Just as he was about to go back to the horse, he had a funny feeling, one that caused the hair on the back of his neck to stand up. Without warning several shots suddenly rang out and rock chips and dust flew all around him.

“Son of a ….” He pressed his body close to the boulder and waited silently.

His breath came shallow but not fast. He had seen too much in the War Between the States, as he’d seen the not so distant hostilities recently referred to in a newspaper, to panic over a few stray shots. He just wondered who it could be. Certainly not the Bluebellies. They would have no reason to be following a lone white man all the way into Indian Territory. It was probably some part-renegade Indians, or some desperado thieving for a horse or a saddle, or both. He doubted that it would be Jack Hart.

Mose waited. And waited. It was completely quiet again. He waited. Ten minutes, fifteen.

Finally, he carefully peered around the boulder again. Nothing. No shots. Nothing. It was as if there had never been anyone there to begin with. He waited ten minutes more.

Cautiously then, he untied Buster and mounted him slowly and smoothly. Still nothing. With a low clucking sound he moved the horse away from the boulder, toward the bushes and the drop off behind. He only looked back once. When he reached the bottom of the drop off, he reined the horse tight and dug in his spurs. With a snort the animal bolted, ran hard.

He guided Buster across the wet ground, through scattered small bushes to the original trail. Still nothing. On the smoother ground of the trail, he slowed the horse to a canter and then finally to a walk.

Whatever or whoever had been out to get him no longer seemed to be there. There was a phantom-like quality to the experience that made him shudder in the saddle. Spurring Buster on briefly to hurry around another blind bend in the trail and to get himself completely out of rifle range, he continued on to Ft. Smith.

—

THE DIRT STREETS OF Ft. Smith were empty and cast in shadow when Henry Hallow saw the rider come into town. The man first appeared at the head of the muddy main street and, between sessions of puffing up his billows, Henry tracked his slow progress toward the livery stable to the side of which Henry maintained his small blacksmith shop. As the man neared Henry’s place he saw the livery stable sign and headed his mount toward it.

“Good evenin’, young man.” Henry smiled when the man pulled up in front of the stable.

“Evenin’.”

Even in the fading light, Henry could make out the man’s features and noted a countenance that bespoke long months on the trail, a life – like so many of late – of deprivation and little human contact. The rider was a man of mid-twenties appearance, medium height and build, light brown hair – too long not cut – and a face highlighted by high cheekbones, a ruddy complexion hiding under the stubbly growth of a week or so, and light, pain-filled eyes. Henry guessed in a moment that this was a man who had seen more than his share of experience in his young life.

As befit a man of the trail, the stranger wore weathered but quality chaps over his dusty pants and above his well-worn boots. He had on a gray shirt, tattered at one shoulder, a dirty, once blue dust kerchief around his neck, and a big brimmed, cowboy hat.

“You the stable man, too?”

“Yes, sir, I am.” Henry paused in his work. “Needing to put your hoss up for the evening are you?”

“I am. There some place around here a man could bed down?”

“Well, sir, the only place for that is over at the hotel across the way and down a couple of buildings. See there by the sheriff’s office?”

“How much for keeping my horse overnight?”

“Fifteen cents?”

Henry wasn’t sure what a fair price was. His wife Mary always admonished him to charge “twenty-five cents for the horse and a dime for oats, never less,” but Henry believed in basing the price on the appearance of the person asking. This fellow didn’t look like he would have a lot of money, though you never could tell.

“How about a place to eat?”

“Hotel again, but they charge four bits for supper. Or, you know, you could just eat with my missus and me. If you wanted to. We have enough to share.”

“I wouldn’t want to put you out none.”

“Mary would be happy to add another plate.”

He didn’t know if she really would or not but there was something about this young man, in the way he held himself proud but humble somehow at the same time, that made Henry think he was not an outlaw, not a bad man. “Join us, please. I’m ready to quit for the day, anyway.”

“It would be right neighborly of you.”

“Well, come on then. Let’s get your buckskin set up and we’ll see about getting’ something to eat.”

“Thank you, sir, Mr....”

“Hallow.” Henry wiped his right hand on the black leather apron he wore before extending the hand in greeting, “Henry Hallow. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Moses Traven.” The young rider introduced himself. “Of Missouri, and other parts. My pleasure to meet you, too. And you done met Buster here. We’ve traveled a fair piece together the two of us.”

“I suspicioned as much. I reckoned that you had.”

—

AFTER A BIG SUPPER of beef, beans and biscuits, Mose made his hosts accept two-bits from him just for their kindness.

“Oh, no.” Henry protested, but Mose could see the missus didn’t mind. Spending money was hard to come by, so he left the coins on their kitchen table.

Henry insisted then that he spend the night free in the stable. There was a decent spot up in the loft and plenty of clean hay. He took the blacksmith up on the offer.

“You might stick around a bit.” Henry suggested as the men walked back to the stable.

“Why come?”

“Hanging. Judge Corey’s gonna hang some boy from the Territory come over and killed a drummer. It’ll be a big crowd for that one.”

“Never seen a law-caused hanging.”

“Stay a spell. You’ll see one.”

When Henry went back to the house, Mose climbed up to the stable loft, found some dry hay, and spread his bed roll down. It was comfortable, a heck of a lot more so than the ground that had been his bed during the cattle drive he’d just left.

Lying there in the stable, gazing through a hole in the roof at the star-filled night sky, he recalled the events that caused him to leave the drive with a month left before they reached the Baxter Springs trailhead.

It was that Jack Hart caused it all. Hart was related to Charlie Wilcox, the cattle owner and trail boss, and even though he was just a flank rider, he thought he was in charge of the herd all the time Wilcox was out front scouting for water and the night’s bedding down spot. In particular, Hart bullied one of two teen-aged boys that rode drag on the mixed herd of ragged Mexican cattle and free ranging Longhorns that Wilcox had scrounged up down around San Antonio.

Mose joined the drive at its beginning in San Antone, a fool’s venture taking the old Shawnee Trail —which was being used less and less—up past Dallas, through the Territory to the trailhead at Baxter Springs. Wilcox knew it was a tricky proposition, what with the concern for Texas tick fever, unruly Indians, and the trails all running to the west now, but he figured it was worth at least one more shot.

Following a couple of years in Mexico with Jo Shelby and his Confederate Iron Brigade escapees down on the Hacienda Carlota, and several more roaming Missouri, Arkansas, Texas and the Indian Territory, Mose knew all about last shots. He was glad to sign on for a dollar a day—even riding drag for a couple of weeks until Wilcox moved him over to a flank.

Hart tried to bully Mose at first, too, but that didn’t play. Not after he threatened to crack his .36 caliber Navy revolver over Hart’s head. Instead, Hart took out his natural meanness on the two boys eating dust behind the herd. He especially singled out Tommy Robison, an even-tempered, hard-working boy.

By the time they had got near to Dallas, Hart was making the boy’s life miserable. He would shortchange Tommy on watch, bark at him for things the kid hadn’t even done, and just generally push him around day and night. When Wilcox let several of the crew go into Dallas to blow off a little steam, Hart took his bullying to the breaking point.

About a half dozen of the boys, including Mose, the two teen-aged boys, Chuy the Mexican cook, a couple of other cowpokes and Hart, went to a saloon to loosen up a bit and knock off some trail dust. Mose was sitting at a table, joking with the young boys, when Hart tried to start a fight with Tommy Robison.

“Get up, you soft-headed piss ant.” Hart growled at the bewildered boy.

“I don’t know why you on me so much.”

“Stand up.”

“No, sir.”

“On your feet or I’ll bust you where you sit.”

“Ease up, partner.” Mose intervened. “Have a drink with us. We’re all on this drive together.”

“Ain’t talking to you.” Hart wouldn’t look at Mose. “Shut your hole and stay out of my way.”

“Best walk a bit easy there.”

“You don’t like it, get up.”

“Suit yourself.” Mose slid his chair back.

“Don’t, Mr. Traven.” Tommy reached out his arm.

“It’s all right, Tommy.”

“You gonna regret this, Traven.” Hart said.

“Could be.”

Hart made a move as if he might go for his sidearm, but before he got anywhere near his belt and holster, Mose drew his .36 and backhanded the barrel against the side of his head. It made a loud, thwacking sound. Hart went down in a heap.

“Let’s get him out of here and back to the herd.” Mose told the boys. “He ain’t likely to be none too happy when he comes to.”

From that day, Hart seethed with anger toward Mose. So much so that he had to watch his back all the time he worked the herd. Once, he nearly snuck up behind him, but Mose sensed something and turned around in time to draw down on his adversary in a Mexican standoff.

Then, after the drive had crossed the Red River and were up into the Territory, they had it out. Head to head, fist to fist, around the campfire just as Chuy was getting supper done. It was a bitter fight and he took his lumps, but he got the better of Hart. The next day, Charley Wilcox let him go.

“I’m sorry, you’re a solid man, but I can’t have this on the drive. Jack is family, even if he’s trouble, and I gotta go with that. I hope you understand.”

He took the sixty dollars Wilcox offered him and with a quick goodbye to the crew, turned east and headed for Fort Smith.

“This ain’t over, Traven.” Hart pointed at him.

“Good luck.” Tommy called out. Mose waved his right arm in farewell.

Remembering the unfortunate end of the drive, he finally drifted off to sleep in the stable beside Henry Hallow’s blacksmith shop. Before he even realized he had slept, something woke him. A sound in the stable below.

He lifted himself up on his elbows and peered over the loft. It was still dark but there was a slight hint of the first gray of pre-dawn. Buster snorted and moved nervously in his stall. Mose thought he saw the figure of a man down below.

“Who’s that?” He called out. “What is it?”

The boom of a sidearm was his answer and before he could move, the loft slat next to his bedroll exploded upwards, spraying bits of wood all around. Grabbing his .36, he returned fire but could only shoot at the shadows below. Two more rounds ripped into the floor of the loft and he replied again, then moved away from his bedroll.

Feeling for his boots, he picked up the right one and moved to the back of the loft where he could peer down into the stable. All was silent for a moment. With a slow motion, he heaved the boot onto the loft floor. It landed with a solid thud and the shooter below fired off two rounds in the direction of the sound. Mose saw the flash of fire from the attacker’s pistol and fired two rounds above and slightly to the left of the flash. There was a low moan, then silence again.

He waited a full moment, continued to peer down into the shadowy stable. Nothing. He carefully climbed down the loft ladder, heard the sound of people coming toward the stable, walked cautiously toward the front of the building. Even in the graying light, he could hardly see and bumped into a heap on the floor. It was a man.

As he bent down to the man, someone opened the door of the stable and let in enough light to identify the shooter, who now lay in a pool of his own blood. It was Jack Hart from the cattle drive. He had tried to make good his word. He had tracked him down and tried to kill him. Mose shivered to think how close his adversary had come to fulfilling that task.

“Lower your sidearm, son.” He heard a voice from behind say. “Step back from there and drop it.”

He looked up to see a man wearing a marshal’s badge. The marshal held a long-barreled .44 pointed right at him. He laid his pistol down and stepped back.

“Get your gear. I gotta take you in.”

—

JUDGE COREY WAITED TO hear Mose’s case until the day of the scheduled hanging. Wanted to give him a fair hearing, he said, learn the particulars of the case. Liked to give everyone a fair trial, thought the sound of the gallows would be likely to produce the truth of the case.

He gave his side of the shooting. The judge listened with something that was maybe like interest. Half the time, Mose wasn’t even sure what the judge was talking about, wasn’t sure his honor was all there, all the time. He was sure the judge could do as he darned well pleased.

“I ought to hang you for murder. For murdering your partner.”

“He tried to kill me and we wasn’t exactly partners.”

“This man ain’t no killer.” Henry Hallow interjected from out in the crowd. The judge rapped on his table with a wooden mallet.

“Did you see the shooting?”

“Uh …, no, sir.” Henry admitted.

“Then shut your mouth or I’ll throw you in jail, too.” Henry shut up. “Marshal.” The judge switched his focus. “Is the defendant indigent.”

“W—what?”

“Does he have any means of support?”

“I don’t catch your meaning, sir.”

“Does he have any money, for crying out loud?”

“You got any money?” The marshal turned to Mose.

He thought of the twenty-dollar gold piece stowed in a little pocket at the back of his saddle that his Mexican girlfriend Maria had stitched up for him. There was also another twenty in paper bills under the wornout sock in his left boot. He had about seventeen dollars and some change in the pocket of his pants.

“Some.”

“Produce it.” The judge ordered.

“What?”

“Let’s see it. You frontier types are really dense.”

When he was slow to “produce” his money, the marshal reached in his pockets for him. He handed the money to the judge.

“This is all? Seventeen dollars and three bits? I ought to hang you just for this insult.”

A man standing to one side of the judge leaned over and spoke quietly in his ear. The judge grimaced.

“I know. I know. We have to get on with the real hanging.”

“All right.” He addressed Mose directly. “Let’s finish this up. I fine you this seventeen dollars and such for… for discharging your weapon inside the town limits. Case dismissed.”

“You’re takin’ my money?”

“I suggest, cowboy. That you should count your lucky stars I’ve got more work to do today than bother with a two-bit cowpuncher like yourself. This is your fine, now get out. Go. You’re free to go. Get out of my courthouse. And let this be a lesson to you.”

Without another word, the judge rose and stomped out of the courtroom. The marshal led Mose outside and walked him back to the stable. Henry Hallow tagged along beside.

“You’re clear to go, son.” The marshal held out his hand. “I recommend you get your gear together and ride on.”

“I take your meaning.” Mose shook his hand.

“Good luck to you.”

“Whew.” Henry whistled when the marshal was gone, “that was a close one.”

“They took my money.” Mose straightened a saddle blanket on Buster. “They didn’t give a damn that somebody got killed one way or another.”

“Yep, that’s how old Judge Corey works.”

“Well.”

“You ain’t gonna stick around even for just a bit? There’s still that hanging later on.”

“Hell, if that crazy judge don’t decide to rob me instead of trying me.” Mose cinched the saddle down. “It could be my neck getting stretched up there today, too. And for killing a lowdown scoundrel what was gonna kill me.”

“I could use some help with the blacksmithing.”

“I appreciate that, Henry, and you and your missus’ hospitality, too, but I don’t believe this place is right for me. I best be moving on like the marshal said.”

“Where to?"

“Don’t know. Sedalia maybe. If there’s work.” “

Well.” Henry looked at his grimy boots. “I reckon it’s goodbye, then.”

“I reckon so.” Mose lifted himself into the saddle.

Buster snorted and tossed his head back. He was ready for the trail. With a gentle heel to the horse’s flanks, Mose turned the animal to the left out into the dirt main street of Ft. Smith.

“Take care.” Henry called after his retreating figure.

Mose waved his right arm in goodbye. With a light tug of the reins, he guided Buster to the north, toward the Boston Mountains, and Fayetteville beyond, on to the Missouri border. He’d had all he wanted of Ft. Smith. He doubted he’d be back.

TO BE CONTINUED....

J.B. Hogan

J. B. Hogan is an award-winning author, poet, and local historian. A veteran of the U. S. Air Force Security Service and Tactical Air Command, he holds a Ph.D. in English Literature from Arizona State University (1979). For many years he worked as a technical writer in Arizona and Colorado. To date, he has published over 270 stories and poems, as well as ten books.

Among his books, all published by Oghma Creative Media, are Time and Time Again, Mexican Skies, Tin Hollow, Living Behind Time, Losing Cotton, and Fallen. His first two books, The Apostate (fiction) and Angels in the Ozarks (nonfiction baseball history) have been acquired by Oghma Creative Media and will be re-released in the near future.

He has served as chair and a member of the Fayetteville (AR) Historic District Commission. He also has served as president and board member of the Washington County (AR) Historical Society which in October 2019 honored him with its Distinguished Citizen Award. He spends much of his time researching, writing, and giving tours and lecturing. He also plays upright bass in the family band East of Zion, who play an eclectic mix of bluegrass-tinged Americana music.