Читать книгу Devil Rising: The Heart of a Gunman - R. B. Conroy - Страница 9

Chapter 3

“And may the Lord bless his tortured soul. Amen!” A warm breeze blew across the barren hilltop as Jon, Ed, and Pastor Toms performed a brief burial ceremony for the young gun killed by Jon the day before. Ed kneeled down and pounded a cross in the dirt above the grave. The name Dusty Fry was crudely painted on the small wooden edifice.

“Thank you Pastor Toms,” Jon said. “I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome Jon; it’s a shame. Such a young man,” the elderly Pastor replied as he shook his head.

“Yea, I wish I could ...”

The Pastor interrupted, “I know you do, Jon. But the boy had no kin and you helped send him off. It was a fine gesture, Sheriff.”

Jon nodded. The Pastor climbed in his buggy, the leather cracked, “Gitty up!” he shouted, and the buggy jerked forward toward town.

“I’ve got to be going Jon, I promised Will Banks I’d help him round up some strays,” Ed said as he dropped the hammer in the saddle bag. “You okay?”

“I’ll be fine; see you later at the jail.” Jon smiled at his old friend. Ed’s leg flew up over his Buckskin; he tipped his hat and rode off to the Banks Ranch.

Jon’s heart was heavy as he stood and watched his friend ride away. Alone with his thoughts, the memories of past gunfights and the sounds of death flooded through his mind. The screams, the pain, the violence; it was a recurring theme. He yearned for the simpler days, when he was a younger man. His mind wandered back twenty years ago when he and Ed Morgan first met on the plains of North Dakota. He thought of the whys and wherefores of his life, and how life’s bumpy road had led him to where he was now. As he mounted Babe for the trip back to town, he thought back to that first day in the buffalo camp.

* * *

The bay’s nostrils had flared as she reared up and almost bucked Jon off. “Whoa girl! Whoa!” he tried to calm his frightened steed. The horrible stench of rotting buffalo carcasses piled on the edge of the compound had spooked the jittery horse as they rode into camp. Just twenty-one and fresh from a year long stay in Dodge City, Jon was young and restless and looking for a new adventure. A couple of old timers had told him that buffalo hunting camps in the Red River Valley would be a good bet for a young man like Jon. Fearless and a crack shot, Jon packed up his belongings in Dodge City and headed out to the Dakota Territory, determined to make a go of it as a buffalo hunter.

Jon remembered reining his horse around toward a large tent where several men were standing in line. Others were eagerly exiting the tent and counting their take for the day. Most of them were heading for the saloon tent, some fifty feet away. It won’t be long before those boys will either drink their money away or lose it in a poker game, Jon thought. What a shame. Jon was no fool when it came to money. As he moved into the camp, he saw a group of runners talking loudly and playing poker around a campfire. The old timers in Dodge told Jon to use the name runner, not hunter, while in camp - only green horns used the name hunter. Always proud, Jon didn’t want to be branded a green horn, even if he was new to the fine art of buffalo hunting. Suddenly a fight broke out between two of the runners in the card game. Jon stopped for a second to watch as the two ruffians slugged away.

“Don’t you ever try that again, you lowlife!” one of the men shouted as he leaped out of his seat and dove toward the other player. Money and poker chips were flying everywhere as the two ruffians rolled around on the ground kicking and punching.

Then suddenly, as quickly as it had started, the fight ended. One of the men jumped up, dusted off his jeans and headed back to the game. The other man shouted something at the retreating pugilist and then followed suit. It was just like nothing had ever happened. Both were laughing and joking as they picked up their chips and got back to poker.

Quite a rambunctious group, Jon had thought, I should fit right in here. Jon could down a drink and deal a hand with the best of them, but he always knew where to draw the line. Growing up on a farm in Indiana, his Pa had taught him early on the value of a dollar.

Anxious to get over to the mess tent and get some grub, Jon first had some business to take care of. The old timers in Dodge City had told him the only way to make money in the buffalo camp was to avoid the middle man and get your own outfit. An outfit consisted of two wagons, one large and one small, with metal frame boxes. It took metal frames to withstand the great weight of the buffalo carcasses. The large wagon required twelve mules to haul the dead buffalo back to camp; the smaller wagon required six mules and was used around the camp for lesser loads. A couple of horses, the usual bedrolls, cooking utensils and a tent completed the outfit. A typical setup would cost about two thousand dollars, a lot of money for a man as young as Jon. But Jon was no ordinary young man. Through a combination of hard work and well-honed gambling skills, he had been able to save almost five thousand dollars during his stay in Dodge City - a small fortune.

Jon’s horse was prancing nervously. Finally Jon got up the nerve and blurted out at one of the departing hunters, “Pardon me sir, but do you happen to know of anyone who is looking to sell their outfit?” The old runner frowned as he looked up from counting his cash.

“Kind of’ young to be lookin’ to get your own outfit, ain’t ya fella?” the old timer barked, his skin dark and cracked from all those long days in the hot sun.

“Could be, but I really don’t think so,” Jon shot back.

“I don’t either,” remarked a young man just leaving the tent. “You look plenty old enough to me.”

“Well thank you, and to whom do I owe this pleasure?” Jon immediately liked the friendly young man who had jumped into the conversation and was anxious to learn more about him. Jon smiled and nodded at the old timer, sending him on his way.

“Ed Morgan’s the name, just in from Missouri Territory and looking for a partner.” The young fella spoke confidently as he approached Jon. “Could that be you?”

“Now hold on there friend. I wasn’t really lookin’ for a partner,” a surprised Jon replied with a nervous chuckle. “I was trying to get my own outfit.”

“Well, I understand Mr…?”

“Stoudenmire, Jon Stoudenmire,” Jon responded quickly, a little taken back by the aggressiveness of this young hunter.

“You see Jon, you got a big problem. I been checking around for quite awhile and as far as I can tell, there’s only one outfit for sale in this camp and it’s been promised to me. But I only have half the money it’s going to take to buy it, so I need a partner to cover the other half. You look honest enough to me, so are you in or out?” the young runner pushed on, barely giving Jon a chance to think.

Never one to make rash decisions, Jon was really being pushed by this young Missourian. He wanted more time, but he also wanted to get his own outfit real bad. He liked this brash young tenderfoot and decided to trust his instincts and give it a shot, but not before a little more friendly bantering. Years later, Ed would confess that even he was surprised by how forward he was that first day.

“Now just hold on there fella, I don’t even know if you can shoot straight or not. I might be tying into somebody that couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn from fifty feet. I might end up shooting all the buffs and then you’ll want to split the profits.” Jon’s eyes narrowed as he looked over at the young runner.

Without saying a word, Ed carefully lifted his .50-90 Sharp Carbine up out of its saddle holster and raised it carefully to his left forearm. Jon wondered what the heck he was doing, as he leveled the large rifle for a possible shot. Ed then took direct aim at a big sign hanging some hundred yards away, next to the Wells Fargo Tent. It seemed like an eternity before Ed gently squeezed the trigger on the beautiful rifle.

Boom! came the blast from Ed’s .50-90. All eyes turned to look at the distant sign. Splinters flew as the bullet hit the soft pine edifice. It was a long way off, but it appeared to Jon that the “e” in the Wells Fargo sign was pretty much gone.

“You still think I can’t hold up my end?” Ed said confidently, the smoke still spewing from his Sharp’s barrel.

Jon couldn’t believe his eyes. This kid can really shoot, he thought. I’d better just knock him down a notch or two. Jon, without saying a word, slid his .50-70 Carbine out of its saddle holster; lifted it up to shooting position and took careful aim at the same distant sign. A crowd had started to gather after Ed’s shot; some of the men in the camp had picked up on what was going on. They had quit doing whatever they were doing and started moving closer to where the two young men were squaring off.

Suddenly there were two loud blasts from Jon’s Carbine. Hs head jerked back, his horse reared up as the percussion from the shots reverberated throughout the camp.

The growing audience hastily turned to look at the distant sign to see how the youngster had done. No splinters flew this time; it appeared as though Jon had missed the sign completely.

“Looks like you were off a little my friend!” Ed shouted. “Let’s go check it out!”

Ed leaped abroad his mount as he and Jon raced toward the sign. Their horses jumped to a stop right in front of the sign. Both men craned their necks to try and see the result of their handy work. Sure enough, the “e” had a great big hole in it. Just as Jon had thought, Ed had made a perfect shot. The pressure was on Jon now as the two young men scanned the rest of the sign. There were oohs and ahs from the arriving crowd as they began to see the results of Jon’s marksmanship. Upon closer examination, two precision like holes could be found in the middle of the “a” and the “o” of Wells Fargo.

“Lordy be, did you see that?” one of the old runners exclaimed loudly. “Them young fellers sure can shoot!”

Both men began laughing hysterically as they reached out to shake hands and cement their new partnership. The crowd that had gathered began to applaud the young sharpshooters as they dismounted and went inside the tent to pay the frightened owner for the damage to his sign. Soon the two young men emerged from the tent, smiling from ear to ear.

“What you say we get that outfit we were talking about a few minutes ago?” Jon said with a smile.

“Sure ’nuff, Partner. Sounds like a great idea! I’ll meet ya here in the morning.”

Jon nodded and headed for the mess tent.

The next day the two young men met and purchased their new outfit. After a few small repairs to a back wheel on the large wagon, they were ready to start shooting some buffs and making some money. But as Jon thought back, he remembered that it wasn’t quite as easy as they reckoned it would be. These cocky young hunters had a few lessons to learn along the way.

He remembered the first day of the hunt. He and Ed had located a herd of buffalo only a few hours from the camp, just up from the Red River northeast of camp about five miles.

“Hold on there, Jon,” Ed ordered as they approached the buffs.

Both of the young runners reined their horses to a stop. Jon looked puzzled as he glanced over at Ed.

“What’s the matter; did you wet yourself or something?” Jon kidded his new partner.

“No, smart aleck! I just want to know how we’re going to shoot these buffs?

“With our guns,” Jon laughed. “How else?”

“You really are a green horn,” Ed replied. “I sure hope nobody heard you say that or they’ll never call us runners again, even if we are crack shots.”

“Okay, okay. Go ahead!”

“There’s two ways of shooting, Jon. The stationery method, where we lay down behind our horses and shoot the buff as the run by; or there’s the running method where we ride into the herd on horseback and shoot them that way. I could do it either way, what do you think partner? “

“Oh, the running method for sure,” Jon replied, cheeks still a little pink with embarrassment.

“Okay big Jon, running it is. Let’s get at it. We’re not doing any good standing around talking about it.”

As they approached the herd of about three hundred buffalo, the huge animals became nervous and began to move away from the two youngsters. Jon signaled to Ed that he would ride in first. By now the frightened buff were almost at full gallop. Jon was more scared than the buffalo as he rode into the middle of the herd - a little too far in, he would think later. There were buffalo all around him and they kept bumping into his horse and knocking him sideways, all the while they were picking up speed. Jon had basically seen only pictures of buffalo and was amazed at how big they were as he raced among the giant behemoths. He was holding on for dear life and trying to get his rifle out.

It was at this point that Jon learned the first important lesson about buffalo hunting - beware of prairie dog holes! Now just a few hundred yards into the hunt, Jon was being knocked silly in the middle of the rampaging herd. Suddenly, he felt his horse go out from under him.

“Oh my God, oh my God!” Jon screamed as his poor horse stepped into a prairie dog hole at full gallop. The horse went down and Jon went soaring through the air, right into the middle of a bunch of stampeding buffalos. It was at this point that Jon’s instinct to survive, that would serve him so well throughout his life, kicked in. The chances of making it out of a fall like this alive were slim to none, especially for a beginner. But somehow Jon was able to grab hold of the mane of a large bull buff as he flew over the frightened animal. With a mighty effort, he yanked himself down on top of the two thousand pound beast. With Jon holding on for dear life, the frightened buffalo went kicking and snorting down the trail. After several minutes, the huge animal grew tired and ran off to the side of the pack. This momentary detour allowed Jon time to jump to the ground, safely out of the way of the other rampaging buffalo.

Ed arrived on the scene shortly after Jon got off the buff.

“You alright?” Ed shouted nervously.

“Yea, I think so,” Jon said quietly, skin pale and eyes wide.

He laid motionless for several minutes, staring at the sky.

A little concerned, Ed yelled at his new friend, “Try moving your arms Jon.”

“Okay!” Jon lifted his arms up and down.

“Your arms are okay,” Ed barked. “Now move your head from side to side and back and forth.”

Jon’s head rocked back and forth.

“Head seems okay,” Ed said. “Well, your arms are okay and you didn’t break your fool neck. Now try to get up on your legs,” Ed ordered, looking nervously at his pal.

Jon’s big hand went up to Ed, beckoning for his assistance. Ed leaned down and grabbed hold; his horse pushed backwards as he pulled the muscular young man to his feet. Jon walked around gingerly, testing his legs. He was limping a little, but otherwise everything seemed okay.

Ed shook his head. “I swear, there aren’t too many people who could come out of that alive. What the heck happened out there?

“I was riding along in the middle of all of them buff, when all of a sudden my horse went out from under me and I went flying. Next thing I knew, I was on the back of a big bull holding on for dear life,” Jon explained, as he limped around holding his leg. Except for some soreness in his right leg, Jon appeared to be in pretty darn good shape.

“Why’d your horse fall?”

“I don’t know for sure, but I think she may have stepped in a prairie dog hole. By the way, how’s my horse doing? Is she alright?” Jon queried Ed as he dusted himself off.

“Well I’ll be, you just about got killed and you’re worried about your darn horse,” Ed chuckled.

“You’re darn tootin’, she’s a good one. Don’t want to see her get hurt.”

“I checked her out on the way over here; she looked fine to me. A little scared, but fine,” Ed replied, reassuring his friend.

“Good, glad to hear that.” Jon sounded relieved. “I guess we both learned a lesson today, Ed. Watch out for prairie dog holes!”

“Guess so, Jon, but I learned another lesson.”

“What’s that?”

“Always let your partner go first.”

Both men joined in a lively laugh on that one, but Ed could not help but be impressed with the toughness and resourcefulness of his good friend. This is one tough hombre, he thought. What he just did was amazing.

Lesson one was in the bag now but there were more lessons to come. Jon thought back to another lesson the two young runners had to learn, and it was all about ammunition. Not the kind of ammo they were using but how much. He remembered a talk he had with Ed after their first day out hunting.

Ed had just got back from the skinner and fur company, and Jon had a few questions about their first harvest.

“Well, how’d we do Ed? Can I buy that ranch in Colorado now?” he joked as he looked at his partner’s long face.

“Hardly. We got six hundred for the skins and our ammo cost seven hundred,” Ed said dejectedly.

“What the heck’s going on?” Jon asked, a little shaken by the news. He and Ed had just been thinking about how many buffs they had to get to have the kind of payday they wanted; they never even thought about the cost of the ammo.

“I talked to some of the other runners in camp and they said that our kill rate should be about four buffalo for every five shots.”

“Hmmm.....what’s our rate Ed?”

“It took us three hundred shells to kill two hundred buffalo; we got a long way to go, big partner.”

“I guess so. You got any suggestions?” Jon was open to about anything at this point.

“Yea, I think we should get ourselves a couple of .40-45 Remingtons. They’re more accurate, especially at over a hundred yards. And most of our shots are about two hundred or better. Also, we need to switch to English Powder; it’s cleaner and creates more energy.”

“Let’s get at it, Ed. I didn’t come clear out here to lose money. Let’s get those guns and powder and see how we do partner.” Jon patted his good friend on the back. “We’re the best shots in camp. If we can’t do it, nobody can.”

The next time out, the boys got a hundred buffalo with a hundred and fifteen shots. And it only got better from there. It wasn’t long before they had days where they only had two or three misses. They loved their new Remingtons and the English powder was giving them greater velocity and a clearer look at the buffs. The money started rolling in.

Now that lesson number two was in the bag, Jon thought back to the third and final lesson the boys had to learn. And it was about something totally unexpected; something called a poison vial. One day Ed had taken their harvest over to the skinner in their large wagon. To his surprise, the skinner had offered him some unsolicited advice.

“You boys got your poison vials yet? You’re gonna need ‘em,” the skinner shouted to Ed.

“Poison vials, what the heck are you talking about?” Ed was a little confused by what the scruffy old skinner was saying.

“You heard me right, I said poison vials. All you runners are having to go farther and farther from camp to find good herds. And there’s Injuns out there that would just love to do you in. And if they do, they’re going scalp ya, and cut your privates out, and generally chop your body all up. They believe that if they cut you up bad enough, you won’t go to the happy huntin’ grounds. And believe me, Youngin’, those Injuns don’t want no buffalo hunters goin’ to their happy huntin’ grounds. So you better take a vial of poison with you next time out. And if you happen to run into some Injuns and if they’re about to let you have it, just you take out your poison vial and drink it. The Injuns won’t scalp you or cut your privates out if you’re already dead.” The old skinner was kind of grinning as he looked up at the startled young runner.

“Well, that’s good to know I guess,” Ed retorted, kind of shaken by the revelations from the skinner. “I guess I just don’t like hearing things like that.”

“Nobody does, but that’s the way it is out here. This ain’t no Sunday picnic ‘round here, Young Feller,” the old skinner said emphatically.

“I’ll talk it over with my partner,” Ed said quietly, still trying to comprehend everything the old man had just told him.

That evening while he and Jon were sitting around the campfire, Ed decided that it would be a good time to bring up the ugly news he had received earlier in the day. Jon remembered the concerned look on Ed’s face as he explained to him in some detail the awful necessity of carrying a poison vial in case they were attacked by Indians.

“Sounds like something we ought to do, don’t you agree, Jon?”

“I reckon I do; there’s just one problem.”

“What’s that?”

“You better hustle around a get yourself one, ‘cause I already got mine. I like my privates the way they are, so I went and got me one the other day. I guess I plum forgot to tell ya.” Jon laughed as he raised his hands playfully to protect himself from what he knew would be the coming assault from his surprised companion.

“You went and did what? You snake!” Ed shouted as he jumped over the campfire and dove on top of his big friend, the two youngsters rolled around on the ground kicking and fighting.

“Why didn’t you tell me, you gizzard lovin saddle bum?” Ed screamed.

“I would of, but I didn’t get one either. I’m just kidding. I was just spoofin’ you,” Jon shouted as his buddy kept on with the punishment. “I don’t have one! I really don’t!” Jon yelled as he tried desperately to rip loose from the wiry Ed.

The two friendly combatants were laughing hard as they finally began to tire of their frivolity. They looked around for their bedrolls and the chance to get a good night’s sleep. Their chests were heaving as they chuckled and mumbled insults at each other as they crawled under their wool blankets. They were soon fast asleep on the cold, hard ground of the dark solemn prairie. Jon heard the screech of a distant hoot owl as he drifted off to sleep.

Jon smiled to himself as he thought back to that day and the mock fight over a poison vial. It reaffirmed to him what great friends he and Ed had become during those early days on the plains. It was a friendship that was sorely tested one evening when both of them decided to go to the saloon for a night of fun and gambling.

Even as a young man in the camps, Jon spent a fair amount of time at the saloon playing poker. He had become a pretty accomplished gambler during his tenure in Dodge City. Most of the fellows he played against in Dodge City were very good players, many of them professionals. Jon found the pickings pretty good in the camp, playing against a bunch of amateurs. Many of them had walked right off the plow to the camps and had little if any experience with the fine art of five card stud. Jon had been making almost as much playing poker as he was hunting buffalo. Ed did some gambling also, but only occasionally. One evening Jon preformed the usual ritual, politely asked his partner to go with him to the saloon.

“I swear Partner, you’re going to read your life away! Why don’t you put that book away and have some fun for a change?” Jon said as he straightened his brown felt hat and prepared to leave.

“Well, you know what Jon, I might just do that tonight. I haven’t played poker for awhile. I’m getting a little rusty. A night of five card stud and black jack might do me some good,” Ed answered as he closed his book.

“Hey, that’s great. We’ll have a good time. You need to enjoy some of that money you been making anyway,” Jon said as the two young men left their camp and headed for the card game.

The saloon tent was the largest in the camp and was right in the middle of all the chaos. It was a favorite hangout for the runners after a long day of hunting or working around their campsites. It was a makeshift setup with several poker tables, three faro tables, and a roulette wheel. The largest edifice in the tent was a long, old oak bar that was a castoff from the Oriental Saloon in Dodge, a little beat up, but it looked fine. The men were just glad to have a place to drink and play cards, and maybe get lucky with one of the girls brought in from Dodge. The owners found out early on that a few whores in the bar could really improve business.

The patrons sounded particularly boisterous on this sultry July evening. Maybe it’s the heat, Jon thought as the two young runners entered the tent. He greeted several of the regulars lined up at the bar. They were a motley crew, all dressed up and looking for a good time.

“How you fellas doin tonight?”

“Pretty darn good Jon. I suppose you’re here to take our money again?”one of the boys shouted from the end of the bar.

“I sure hope so.” Jon laughed.

“Who’s that handsome fella with you?” one of the hookers asked as she smiled at Ed.

“Oh that’s my partner, Ed,” Jon replied as he introduced Ed to the hooker and several of the boys at the bar. Ed seemed embarrassed by it all and looked for a table to start playing some poker. Jon spotted an open chair at his regular table and sat down for an evening of beer and poker. Ed found a game at a nearby table. As Ed pulled his chair out to sit down, he looked over and nodded at Jon. He looked nervous and a little unsure of himself.

The cards weren’t going Jon’s way. It seemed like every time he had a shot at a big pot, he would take a bad hit and go bust. He was still way ahead for the season, so a bad night now and then was no big deal. On the other hand, every time he looked over at Ed, he appeared to be raking in another big one. He had eight or ten good size stacks of chips sitting in front of him. More power to him, Jon thought. If he was getting shut out, there was nobody he would rather see doing well than his friend Ed.

Jon had noticed a rather large, bearded man at the bar when he and Ed first came in. He knew most of the guys who frequented the saloon, but he didn’t know this fella. He was being very loud and obnoxious and seemed to want to be the center of attention. Probably a wolfer, Jon thought at the time. Wolfers were the scum of the earth and Jon had little use for them. They were the men who came in after a kill and poisoned the buffalo meat left behind by the runners. When the wolves and coyotes would come in for dinner, they were greeted by a big pile of meat full of strychnine. After they had their dinner, they rolled around on the ground for a few hours and died a horrible death. The wolfers would then move in and start skinning them right where they fell. Then they would then leave the poisoned carcasses of the wolves and coyotes behind for the other smaller animals and birds to eat and also die a slow, painful death. They would later sell the skins and move on to the next harvest area and create the same ugly scenario all over again. This line of work attracted the very worst the West had to offer; it took a real bad person to want to become a wolfer. The wolfers usually stayed away from the runners, skinners, and other men in the camp. While the others tolerated the lowly scallywags, they didn’t want to associate with them. It was an unwritten rule that the wolfers were not welcome in camp, except during the day to pick up some supplies. Occasionally, a bold or stupid one would venture into camp after dark to spend some time in the saloon. The large man at the bar looked big enough to hunt bears with a stick. If he was a wolfer, he probably wasn’t too worried about what the runners thought about him being in the camp after dark.

It wasn’t long before the big man had joined Ed’s game. This was not a good sign; Jon didn’t like it. Ed, on the other hand, didn’t think a thing about the big man joining in. He always thought the best of everyone and had a difficult time separating a good man from a bad man. Jon could see trouble coming from a mile away and this guy spelled trouble.

“Is that big loud fella over there at the next table a wolfer?” Jon inquired of one of his playing partners, attempting to verify his intuition about the big lout.

“Sure enough is,” was the answer. “He’s from the Black Hills area over ‘round Deadwood. I hear he’s one mean varmint. Someone said he beat a man to death in Deadwood with his bare hands over a two dollar bet.”

“You don’t say,” Jon replied. “Sounds like a real fine fella.”

“Yea, he’s a bad one. He shouldn’t be in here anyway, being a wolfer and everything. I guess he’s so big he doesn’t give a damn,” the other man said quietly, not wanting the big man to hear him.

“I guess not,” Jon said as he threw his hand in. “I fold.”

Worried about Ed and what was going on at his table, Jon was not able to concentrate on his cards any longer. It didn’t take too long before his concerns about Ed were proven right; things were starting to get ugly over at Ed’s game. The conversation between the players had become very animated. The big bearded man was arguing with Ed about a pot Ed had just won. Jon listened as he accused Ed of cheating. Jon knew better than that; Ed Morgan was as honest as the day is long. Jon excused himself, gathered up his chips and quickly moved over to the end of the bar, right next to Ed’s table for a better vantage point.

Suddenly, without warning, the big wolfer suckered punched Ed. Overcome with rage, Jon interceded and violently beat the huge man senseless. The savageness of the beating was unnerving to the patrons in the saloon. Even in the rough and tumble buffalo camps, a beating of this brutality was rarely seen. At the sound of Ed’s voice, Jon backed off and let the battered man fall to the ground. There was a sigh of relief throughout the saloon. Jon apologized to the stunned crowd as the two tough young runners headed back to their camp, pride intact.

Soon the trouble in the saloon was a distant memory as the two boys continued to do well with their hunting. But even though things were going well, Jon was starting to get a little bored with the routine and was finding it more and more difficult to get up for the hunt. Ed could have kept at it a little longer but he also was growing tired of the long days on the range and the dirt and dust also. So they both agreed that enough was enough and decided to sell their outfit and move on down the road. Only trouble was, it would be two separate roads.

Ed was looking to find a wife, buy a nice piece of land somewhere, settle down and raise a family. Jon was looking to see a little more of the world. He wanted more adventure and excitement and a chance to use his poker playing skills in a few more of the many frontier towns that dotted the western landscape. Settling down was not in the cards right now for Jon.

He thought back to that day when he and Ed sold their outfit for a good profit to a couple of young runners in the camp. They reminded Jon very much of he and Ed when they first came to the camp two years earlier. Excited and filled with anticipation, Jon hoped the newcomers would do well. Later that evening, they gathered up some wood and built their last fire. It was a windy, cold evening on the Dakota prairie as they sat by the campfire for the last time.

“You got any kin up Ellsworth way?” Jon leaned close to the fire and rubbed his hands together as a cool northern breeze sent a chill up his spine. Ed had said earlier that he wanted to head up Ellsworth way and Jon was wondering if there was a family connection in the Kansas town.

“Couple of cousins and an uncle, that’s about it,” Ed replied as he threw a couple of logs on the fire. “We lived there for awhile when I was just a boy. I always liked the area, folks are nice there. Ever since then, I’ve thought that it would be a good place to settle down. How about you Jon, where’s your kin folk?”

They had been so busy trying to make a go of it in the camp that they never got around to talking about their families. Now that they were parting, it seemed to be something they wanted to know.

“I got a little sis out in Denver. Last time I heard she was working in a laundry. She’s the only kin I got left, except for a couple of cousins; both of my parents have passed away. Daddy died in a farm accident shortly before I left Indiana. He was up in the hayloft pitching hay in a wagon and lost his balance and fell. His head hit the hitch on the wagon and it killed him.

“I was always in awe of my father; I couldn’t believe how quickly he died after the fall. Just a matter of a few minutes, his head swelled up and his eyes almost popped out of his face. He looked frightful,” Jon said matter-of-factly.

“My mama died from pneumonia when I was just sixteen. She got real sick that winter with the flu and then she caught pneumonia and died. She was a fine woman, I really miss her.”

“What kind of man was your father Jon?”

“Hmmm...well, he wasn’t a very happy man that’s for sure. I got a good beating about every day. He said the beatings would make me tough, but I hated it and I hated him.” Jon’s voice trailed off. “How about your folks Ed?” he asked, anxious to change the subject.

“They’re fine. Both of them are still farming back in Missouri. I plan to visit them for awhile after I leave here.” Ed seemed surprised by what he saw next when he looked over at his friend.

Jon’s big calloused hand was trembling; his trigger finger wiped a tear away from his eye. “I’m going to miss you buddy, I want you to know that! I’m really going to miss you!” Jon’s big heart was breaking as he opened up to his departing friend. “You’ve been like a brother to me Ed, I’ll never forget ya.” Jon’s voice was shaking; he was almost whispering now.

“Now don’t go getting sentimental on me Jon or we’ll both end up bawling like babies,” Ed replied as he started to tear up. “I wish we could go on forever friend, but things change. And I guess we just have to go our own way now.”

“I guess we do,” Jon said quietly as he scribbled on the ground with a stick, not wanting the pain of looking his departing friend in the eye. “I guess we just have to go our own way,” Jon murmured as he laid back, pulled his hat down over his eyes and prepared to go to sleep for the last time on the cold Dakota prairie.

Ed sat for some time and looked at the flickering flames as they danced nervously in the dimming campfire. Then he too lay down on the cold, hard ground for his last night’s sleep in the buffalo camps.

Jon remembered how somber and melancholy the two young hunters had been that final evening as they sat by the campfire and reflected quietly over their two years together. All of the trials, tribulations and challenges that they had faced together in the camp had indeed made them very close. They had taken on a very difficult situation and had overcome enormous odds to make a go of it. All the struggles and shared experiences helped form the character of both men as they made their way through life. The lessons learned and experiences shared would never be forgotten.

Jon and Ed were pretty subdued the next morning as they loaded up their pack horses and prepared to leave. They were still trying to absorb the totality of the situation. Neither one knew what to say. Finally Jon broke the ice. “You better name one of them little ones after me, you hear me!”

“I promise I will, Partner, I promise! Jon Jr., no doubt about it,” Ed said enthusiastically. “And may your hole card always be an ace, my friend!” Ed said as he walked quickly over to bid his friend farewell.

“Thank you, Partner!” Jon said sincerely as he approached his friend with his hand outstretched. The two shook firmly, quickly embraced, mounted up and rode away in opposite directions. Both were nursing a very heavy heart as they turned without cue a few hundred yards down the trail and tipped their hats in a final farewell. Jon rode on toward Cheyenne and the gambling haunts in that railroad town while Ed headed back toward Missouri for that visit with his folks. A powerful and defining period in these two young men’s life had just come to an end. Little did they know on that cool September day in the Dakota Territory that they would meet again many years later in a little mining town far out in the Sonoran Desert.