Six Gun Justice

No part of this book may be reproduced without the express written authorization of the author, or his assigned representative.

Author’s Copyright date: February 15, 2001

Preamble

Captain Jake Killman had ridden with Jeb Stuart’s cavalry, for four years, in the War Between the States, until he had seen the coming of the end to the cause the Confederacy supported. Six months before the surrender at Appomattox, he had ridden away from the carnage, with the blessings of his general, who knew the cause was hopeless, remembering his last conversation with General Lee.

Dejected and disgusted, he had ridden from Georgia to Texas, tried to drink away his lost years of war, then made his way back from the bottle to stand tall, once again a man, then headed rode for his home range in the far west. The Apaches had stood in his way, as did the Comanche’s, but he had fought his way through their marauding bands, only to arrive home, to find his ranch taken over by the men who had supported the north, and his wife living in the settlement of Strawberry, working as a drudge, taking in washing to survive.

He was again caught up in a war, but this time, it was a war to regain his rightful land, and his place in the community he had left. Arthur Murdock, a cashiered Union officer had sunk roots in the soil of Killman’s birth, running decent folks from their land at the point of a gun. Those who would not leave he had killed by the paid henchmen her surrounded himself with. Sarah Killman had stayed as long as she could, trying to hold together the eight hundred acres they had sweated for, but it was just too much for her.

Thinking it was the better part of valor to leave the ranch before Murdock had her killed, or killed her himself, she had moved off the range she loved, taking up residency in the nearest settlement. Two weeks later Murdock had put his men on the ranch, taking possession by right of force. Sarah had held her tongue, keeping out of Murdock’s way, waiting, and praying for her beloved to return.

When Jake had returned, he was a bitter, angry man, not just at the audacity of the usurper who had taken possession of his ranch, and had run his wife from the land that they had loved, but had forced her into a life of servitude just to survive. The range had run red with the blood of Murdock’s hired guns, as Killman fights in another war that appeared in the beginning to be another lost cause, but turns to his advantage with the help of his friends, and neighbors.

Captain Bradley Killman had ridden west, six months prior to the signing of the surrender at Appomattox, a thoroughly dejected man. He had spent four years under the flag of the Confederacy, riding under the command of Bedford Forrest’s cavalry, watching the men around him die for a cause that was doomed from the very beginning. When his mind could no longer countenance the horrors he saw each day and he could see the handwriting on the wall, he had saddled up and rode for home, with no farewells, and no explanations.

Some would have called it desertion, but Killman looked on it as self preservation of the mind. The Confederacy was doomed with Lee’s surrender, even though some of the hotheads would fight on for a few months until they were caught and hung. Still others drifted into Mexico trading on their own fight for independence from a foreign power, hiring their guns to the Mexican revolutionaries or the
forces of Maximillian. To the dejected who had lost their own civil war it mattered only that some of them had lost everything and had decide on the life of a mercenary and hired their guns and expertise to the highest bidder. 

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He had ridden away from his wife, less than a year after the battle had commenced between the north and the south. He had the strength of a patriot in his mind on the day he had left, but it had not lasted long. After a year of carnage, he realized that the cause was lost. His ideals had been placed on the wrong side, for a reason that had started over states rights, and issue of each state to own slaves.

He had gone to war to fight for the right of the states to govern their constituents, without the Federals in Washington telling them how to do so. He had had high ideals in those days, but the blood of other men the same as he had washed away the veils of mist that had clouded his eyes and shown him how foolish his high ideals had been.

He had stuck it out for three long years, because he had given his word under oath to serve the purpose of the revolution’s cause. But with the end of the war a known factor, he decided it was a lost cause and rode out. He was disillusioned, sick at heart and thoroughly disgusted with the loss of so many fine men.

He had spent the first month trying to drink away the horrors he had lived with for those three years, in some God forsaken town in Texas. He had sold everything of value he owned, except the Colt dragoon that hung on hip. It was now tied low, with the well-oiled holster, and weapon showing many months and years of use and meticulous care. After facing the futility of trying to drown his sorrows and the horrors of war, he had walked to the nearest ranch, where he had signed on for thirty a month and found.

He had used his first three months pay to buy a saddle rope and other gear, then on a week end near the end of the third month he had ridden across the rolling hills near the ranch, and roped the finest mare of a mustang herd, a beautiful, spirited appaloosa, that had gone wild and which wore no brand. He had spent the rest of the weekend getting used to the mare and breaking her to the saddle. He had stayed on as a hand for another three months, putting a little traveling money in his jeans, then collecting his final pay had ridden west toward home.

He had increased his winnings in a poker game, while staying overnight in the small town of Deming, in the New Mexico Territory. With these winnings, he now had enough money to buy a good bull, and still have a little left over to fix up the ranch again. Sarah had been bitter about his leaving, but he knew she would take care of the ranch while he was gone, but a lone woman could only do so much.

It was spring in the Mogollon Rim country when he rode through the canyons and up the ridges he knew and remembered so well. Giving the horse its head, he relaxed in the saddle, breathing in the sweet scent of the pines that surrounded him on all sides, listening to the songs the mocking birds, the call of the jays as they scolded one another, and gazed at a hawk that drifted on the currents of warm air, looking for small prey, on which to make a meal. He realized at that moment, just how much he had missed this country, how much of his life had passed him by. He would never again leave Sarah; never again go tilting at windmills, this he promised himself.

He was two days out of Abilene when he met his first band of roving Comanches. He had been dozing in the saddle when the scream of a tortured soul reached his ears from a nearby ravine. It was the scream of someone in tortured pain that ululated through the hot air, sending a chill of dread through him. He had heard such screams of agony from men mangled in the war, but that was over.

Dismounting and leading his horse cautiously to the edge of the deep ravine, he peeped over the edge to see five painted Indians making sport of a hapless rider who had ventured into their country and been captured by the small band. He was staked to an anthill, a small fire smoldering in the center of his stomach, his head a mass of large red ants. He would not live much longer, and there was nothing that could save his life now. He was past all knowledge of who or where he was, aware only of the excruciating pain that the fire and the voracious red ants were exacting on his writhing body.

Taking careful aim with the carbine he carried in the saddle boot, he squeezed off a shot that released the man from his misery. His next shot came within a split second of the first, before the Comanches could collect their wits, catching the one he figured to be the leader in the head. A third and fourth followed that, killing two more of the small band. That was all the shots he could get off before the last two painted red men came racing at him up the sloping bank of the ravine, firing their ancient weapons in anger at the white man who had dared to interrupt their sport.

He was able to get one more as he charged up the incline, but there was no time to reload before the other one would be on top of him. Jumping to his feet, he dodged beneath the long lance, rolling around the flanks of the Indian pony, as the Comanche topped the rise and rode full tilt at him. He recovered quickly, as did the Comanche warrior, ready for the next attack. He was sweating and dusty from the dirt the warrior’s horse had churned up, and a cold band of steel seemed to be compressing his chest, making it hard to breathe.

He grabbed for the dragoon at his hip, bringing it to bear with the speed of a striking snake. The two shots sounded as one, as the two slugs hit the savage in the chest, toppling him backward across the withers of his pony. In a near state of panic he looked around him, expecting another attack to hit him from another direction, but there was no one left alive. He replaced the pistol in its holster with a shaking hand and went down to where the white man was staked out.

He could feel his gorge rise as he looked down at the man with the small fire still smoldering in the middle of his stomach, feeling pity for him. He brushed away the embers with his boot, and quickly cut the rawhide that bound the man to the four stakes and dragged the body away from the anthill. He would give the man a decent send off by burying the remains and marking his grave.

When he had the man in the ground and covered, he took off his hat and said a few words of condolence over him, asking that God care for his soul. He was not a religious man, but he had buried so many of his comrades in arms, and said the necessary words over them that it came natural now.

Without a glance at eh felled warriors, he mounted, turned his horse to the west again and touched his spurs to the animal. He kept a wary eye out from then on, looking for sign of any hostiles that might be roaming the countryside. His only thought was to make it back to Sarah in one piece, to hold her once more in his arms. He had no other object in his mind; nothing would dissuade him from his objective, not Indians, and surely not nature.

He had a lot to make up to Sarah, and he would spend the rest of his life trying to do just that. He was looking forward to spending his first night at home, feeling Sarah’s arms around him comforting him. He had bypassed the settlement of Strawberry two weeks later, gently guiding the appaloosa along the trail that led ever higher into the pines, feeling the light breeze that wafted across his body, lightly moving the brim of the greasy Confederate hat that graced his long, black hair.

He had fought his way through the Comanches, the White Mountain Apaches and the Membreno on his long trek from Texas, but now he was home. He had let nothing stand in his way, but now he was beginning to feel the rigors of the trail and the tension of the dangers he had faced. Now that he was close to home and the hardships he had suffered for the lat few weeks was settling on his shoulders.

He could see the smoke from his chimney drifted lazily into the afternoon air, quickly dissipating in the light breeze to blend with the sparse clouds that spotted the sky above him. The evening was fast darkening into the night, with just enough light left to see the house clearly

He was home. The house he had built with his own two hands and the sweat of his labor was less than a half-mile below him. He told himself that he could even smell the food he was sure his wife would be cooking up for her dinner. His stomach rumbled with anticipation of the taste of home cooking, making the saliva in his mouth multiply quickly. He had not realized he was hungry; at least not until he thought about Sarah’s home cooking and realizing he had not eaten since last night, then only a sparse meal of canned beans, and a little dried jerky, washed down with scalding black trail coffee.

As he drew nearer the cabin, he spotted the thin tendrils of smoke that came from a cigarette or a pipe, wafting from the front porch. He stopped just short of leaving the tree line, and stood watching from the deepening shadows for a moment, before reaching slowly back to his saddlebag, loosening the flap, and pulling out a brass spyglass, he still had from the war. Extending it, he lifted it to his eye, and brought the front of the house into focus. A grizzly, bearded man sat in a straight-backed, wooden chair, clutching the stem of a large bowled pipe in his teeth, his left hand cupping the bowl as he enjoyed the deep pulls on the pipe.

Dropping the spyglass a little lower, he could make out a pistol on the man’s hip. It looked like one of the newer Colt Paterson’s, but from this distance he couldn’t tell. Leaning next to him was a rifle, a breach loading center fire military carbine, similar to the one he carried beneath his left leg, in the leather scabbard that was laced to his saddle. He could also feel the bulge of the Spencer that was sheathed under his right leg as well, and it gave him comfort.