Bohanin's Last Days Read online

  Boson Books by Randy Smith

  Sunday’s Colt and Other Stories of the Old West

  Bohanin’s Last Days

  Dodge City

  Fort Larned

  Heroes of the Santa Fe Trail: 1821-1900

  Hunting Modern South Africa with Powder and Ball

  Scott City

  The Devil’s Staircase

  The Red River Ring

  Bohanin’s Last Days

  By

  Randy D. Smith

  BOSON BOOKS

  Raleigh

  Published by Boson Books

  3905 Meadow Field Lane

  Raleigh, NC 27606

  ISBN 978-1-886420-56-4

  An imprint of C&M Online Media Inc.

  Ó Copyright 1999 Randy D. Smith

  All rights reserved

  For information contact

  C&M Online Media Inc.

  3905 Meadow Field Lane

  Raleigh, NC 27606

  Tel: (919) 233-8164

  e-mail:[email protected]

  URL: http://www.cmonline.com/boson/

  Contents

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Chapter I

  A brisk breeze from the northwest funneled through the canyon and out over the top of the upward slope of the trail. It reminded him that although it was spring, a sudden storm could turn those Colorado plains looming ahead into a freezing nightmare in a matter of hours. The low cold-weather clouds drifting overhead suggested that he needed to find some type of shelter before sundown. A heavy snow could be just behind those clouds and nothing is as lonely as a struggling campfire and a wet bedroll in a spring blizzard.

  As the wind whipped across the rise, he felt his hat start to lift from his head. He took hold of the brim and drew the crown tighter against his head. He drew up the braided leather thong below his chin and arranged his heavy duster to keep the cold from penetrating. As he adjusted his coat, he was aware of the heavy money belt hidden under his shirt. Carrying such a large amount of money unnerved him and although only a handful of wranglers at the Circle R knew he had the gold, he still tried to take every precaution that he could devise. To have been trusted with the money was an indication of the faith that he had earned and he intended to carry out his mission to the best of his abilities.

  His Colt revolver was tucked in the deep right pocket of the coat. The .44 served little purpose buried under the heavy coat in his holster. The old .57 caliber Spencer rifle in his scabbard was not as dependable as he would have liked. Years of rough use had left the rifle pitted and the woodwork scarred. Cartridges were difficult to find and the six loaded in the rifle were all that he had. He hoped he might find a box of cartridges buried in the back shelves of one of the stores in Springfield.

  His bald faced brown gelding struck at the loose pebbles of the rise with it’s right fore foot, eager to be on its way. The short coupled mustang was the fastest and surest of his string and there weren’t many ponies with his stamina.

  He had only that section where the trail cut through a deep arroyo to manage and the rest of the journey would be on open plains. On the windswept grasslands, it was difficult for even Indians, let alone bandits to approach without detection. Once he worked through that lonesome arroyo, it was an easy ride into the relative safety of Springfield.

  His spurs lightly touched the flanks of the gelding and the animal struck across the flatlands in a gentle gallop. He moved well with the horse as his youthful coordination allowed for a fluidity that only came from good health and strong physique. He wondered why Reinholt had not sent one of the other wranglers along, but also realized that the old man was short-handed. Only two men in the outfit would have been given his responsibility and the range boss was needed to coordinate the round up. Why the major had elected not to make the trip himself eluded Tim Stevens. His best reasoning was that the old man was getting too old and had to delegate such authority. It might as well be now.

  It was around noon when he came to the point where the trail descended into the arroyo. The narrow path, only wide enough to allow wagon passage, twisted and turned along the cliff face to his right and the dry slough below to the left. Erosion had left the arroyo devoid of life save a few choya and cactus that managed to survive in the poor soil along the slopes. Only streaks of layered sediment of black, tan and red running the top shelves gave the cut color. Otherwise it was a loose mass of pebbles and rocks hued with the white dust of trail traffic.

  He stepped down from the gelding and worked to tighten the cinch of his saddle. He offered the animal a few sips of water from his canteen poured into a cupped hand. The animal nibbled at the liquid but wasted more than it got. He wiped his hand along the animal’s forelegs as he tested for soundness. Before mounting, he took time to take one last careful look along the rim. A man with a rifle could make the narrow passage a living hell from which there would be little chance for escape. He thought about riding to the top of the rim and crossing that way. At least he would be above the canyon walls rather than below. But it was a foolish waste of energy if he didn’t need to. It would be difficult for the horse and greatly increase the chance for an accident. On the plains, a man could be stranded for days without a horse before help might happen by. Any man, riding alone in such country, had to take special care of his animal and preserve its strength whenever possible.

  When he was satisfied that the canyon was empty, he remounted and urged the mustang down the road. Even the fierce wind failed to make much of an impression upon the base of the canyon. There was a lonely claustrophobic impression within the surrounding arroyo walls.

  The booming eruption of the rifle shot echoed and roared through the canyon. The gelding’s scream of pain as the bullet tore through its chest created a pitiless song of death. He struggled to maintain his balance as the pony threw its head to the right. Stevens was able to free his foot from the left stirrup as the animal rolled to the ground. As the full weight of the beast slammed into the dust of the road, he rolled from the saddle and crawled to the top of the animal to pull the Spencer from the scabbard. Bullets from several rifles rained down upon him. As he jerked the Spencer free, one bullet tore a channel through his forearm, lodging itself in the gelding’s body. He dropped the rifle as his broken right arm went limp below the elbow. He retrieved the weapon with his left. He rolled down the side of the slope, away from the horse, hoping to find more cover in the rocky slough. As he did, singing lead ripped into the rocks beside him.

  When he came to rest at the base, he quickly searched for any outcropping that might offer some cover. A spire of eroded soil a few yards from his position presented the best alternative. He made a running dive for the spire. Another bullet caught him in the calf of his right leg, tearing a path through both boot and chap. As he made the cover, bullets careened about him.

  He tried to manage the Spencer and struggled to lever a cartridge into the chamber. But the old design demanded two strong arms to properly feed it and jammed with the first attempt. He cast the rifle aside and fished his revolver from his pocket, struggling to free it from the heavy material. He groaned in frustration and fear. He began trembling as he realized that against rifles, with only the short-range revolver, he was help
less. His wounds made it difficult for him to move quickly. He couldn’t flee with any speed and he couldn’t fight back with any effectiveness.

  Stevens realized that he would die. Unless some miracle occurred, or some riders came to his aid, he was doomed to the canyon. He thought of the major’s money belt. He opened his shirt and unbuckled the belt. He searched for a place to hide it. He knew the major would probably never recover the money but at least they wouldn’t get it either.

  He coiled the money belt and dug a shallow hole with his remaining good hand. He stuffed the belt into the hole and quickly covered it over with the loose rocks and pebbles. The dryness of the soil and its lack of color helped conceal it. He considered what would happen if he remained there and died. The dry gulchers would realize that he had probably hid it and would eventually find the hole. If he could move some distance, he would make the belt more difficult to locate.

  He rose to his feet and fired the Colt as quickly as he could toward the top of the rim. He tried to run but the bullet in his lower leg had broken it and the best he could manage was to hobble. Slowed and weakening, he made an easy target for the riflemen above. He managed no more than a few feet when several of the bullets found their mark. As they tore through his chest and back, he collapsed to the floor of the canyon.

  He tried to remain still as he waited for a final bullet to find its mark. If he moved, they would just put in another and another. There was some measure of mercy and safety if he remained still. He clutched the Colt beneath him but couldn’t remember if he had fired four or five shots. If it was five the gun was empty. If only four there was still another and he might be able to roll over and put a bullet in one of them as they examined his body.

  The shooting stopped. They would be coming down now to laugh over him and look for the money. There was a certain satisfaction in him as he thought of the frustration that they would feel when they did not find the money. As he heard the muffled footsteps approaching, he thumbed back the hammer on the Colt, hoping for one good shot. But his world was growing dim and his eyesight was fading. As death crawled through him, he realized that the shot didn’t matter. He wouldn’t be able to make it. He was numb to everything that would happen. His hand released its grip upon the Colt as he faded from the world.

  A shadow came over his body as one of the killers looked down upon him. The killer lodged the toe of his boot under his shoulder and lifted him over onto his back. The Mexican searched through coat and shirt looking for the money belt. The Colt remained in the dirt.

  “Is it on him? It ain’t in his saddle bags,” a bushwhacker called from Stevens’ horse.

  The big Mexican stepped back and groaned in frustration, “No, it’s not here. He’s hidden it somewhere in the arroyo.”

  “You don’t suppose we got the wrong guy?” a third man asked from behind.

  “No, I don’t think so. This is the hombre. His horse is the color and shape as was described.”

  “Maybe he didn’t have any money. Maybe he was just to bid on the land and make arrangements to have the money sent.”

  The man who had searched the horse joined his two companions at the body. “No, the conditions of the sale are to be at least a twenty per cent down payment in cash. This gent had the money.”

  “He probably stuffed it under a rock somewhere.”

  “Hell, we saw him the whole time. The only place that he had to hide it was either where he’s at or where he took cover.”

  “Here it is. He was a smart pup.”

  The men rushed to form a circle around the hole. A fancy green braided money belt was drawn from the hole.

  “How much is there?”

  The man examining the belt giggled. “Hell, there’s a bunch. Look here, there’s a bunch of double eagles in every pouch.”

  “We can count it later, amigos. We need to get this hombre and his horse out of here. No one must find them. There would be too much to explain.”

  “Hell, leave them where they lay. The buzzards will make short work of them.”

  “Not quick enough. This hombre must vanish or others will ask too many questions. Trust me on this. We will drag them both to the canyons to the west. It will take years for someone to stumble upon them. By that time their bones will be scattered and this hombre will be forgotten.”

  “Right. And no one the wiser.”

  “Dragging that horse out of here will be a chore.”

  “We’ll drag the horse only a little way. Take the saddle and bridle off him, and in only a few days, no one will be able to tell if it was wild or tame.”

  “We could burn them both. That would hide them real good. No one will know what’s in a pile of ashes.”

  “Si, muey bueno. We’ll burn them.”

  The Mexican packed Stevens out of the arroyo. The mustang was drug behind the other two with lariats. Once out of the canyon, it was much easier to drag them both than was expected. Stevens and his horse were piled together under a cliff overhang of a narrow canyon that was among many that cut into the base of a butte. Dry brush was gathered and soon covered them. The fire burned quickly and became intensely hot. It took only a few hours to completely destroy their bodies. The men remounted their horses and left the canyon. It was a canyon so obscure that after a few miles, none of the riders were absolutely sure whether they could find it again.

  A snowstorm did not appear, as Stevens had feared. But a front moved in and whipped wind through the tiny cut that would become their only monument. Black ash scattered through the rocks and drifted out onto the plains. Only bits of bone, melted remains of buckles and cinch rings remained to mark the spot.

  Chapter II

  Dr. Whitehead could not help but smile as he watched Bohanin’s stiff progress toward the post infirmary. Thirty years of service in the cavalry imposed a heavy measure of torment upon the officer. Bohanin’s rail-thin six foot frame clad in an impeccable close fitting uniform of cavalry blue, moved with a march of authority. But there was an unsteady, clumsy stride of pain that told volumes to the experienced physician watching the officer’s progress. Arthritic knees, the product of years in the saddle and exposure to the harsh elements, could never be totally trusted to carry the soldier as they once had served in his youth. Although a splendid figure in the saddle, Bohanin was out of his element when afoot. His feet seemed too small, his calf-high black riding boots unsuited for the rough footing of the parade ground that separated the bachelors’ officer quarters from the infirmary. Although ramrod straight in carriage, his movements were always guarded in case a misstep would painfully demonstrate the toll that years of service on the frontier had taken.

  Dr. Whitehead turned toward his medicinal supplies stored along one wall of his simple examining room. The portly physician, slightly balding, sporting a handsomely groomed handlebar mustache, opened a lower door near the base of the heavy oak cabinet. He drew a bottle of rye whiskey stored out of sight of general patients yet curiously easy to locate as if regularly summoned to duty for others. He gathered two shot glasses from a nearby shelf that was also strewn with the odd paraphernalia of his craft. The small physician placed the glasses on a table at the center of the room and poured two fingers worth into each of them. He walked to the door and opened it for Bohanin, as the lanky soldier was preparing to knock.

  Whitehead turned toward the glasses and the table, pulling a rough chair into position. The post surgeon sighed as he placed himself in a comfortable sitting position, his back to the door, and lit his first cigar of the day.

  Bohanin did not react to the somewhat cold greeting; as such casual behavior had become a ritual for both men after months of familiarity on a frontier post. The defeat of Indian resistance and the coming of the railroad many miles to the south rapidly ended any reason for protocol. Bohanin shut the door and took his place across the table from the surgeon. Bohanin smoothed back what was left of the hair on the sides of his head. A white forehead shielded from the sun and wind by his crumpled hat seemed i
n odd contrast to his red weathered features and startling blue eyes. He stroked his gray goatee into place before reaching for the glass of whiskey.

  Bohanin held the glass for inspection as he prepared for the customary morning toast. Whitehead fondled the glass and gazed into its amber liquid essence.

  “Well, it can’t be as bad as all that,” Bohanin said in a deep voice.

  “Who said it was bad?” Whitehead asked.

  “From your appearance this morning, I thought you were ready for the funeral parade,” Bohanin said. “You still rubbing horse liniment on them knees?”

  “Every morning,” Bohanin said. “It’s the only damn thing that’ll get em loosened up.”

  Whitehead shook his head in disgust.

  “That and this axle grease you serve for drinking whiskey,” Bohanin said. He downed the liquid in a single draught.

  Whitehead drew the cork from the bottle and refilled Bohanin’s glass. Bohanin responded by sipping an ounce from the top and quietly arranging his goatee a second time, carefully stroking his mustache on each side with one finger to spread the slight liquid residue of the whiskey through it.

  “Thirty years of service,” Whitehead said. He raised his glass in salute toward Bohanin and took a sip. Bohanin nodded and downed the remainder of his portion.

  “Yep, I’ve served under the best and worst of them through two wars and six Injun uprisings,” Bohanin said with a sense of resignation and pride.

  “Robert E. Lee, Kirby Smith, Ulysses Simpson Grant, Phil Sheridan,” Whitehead said.

  “And Custer, McKensie, and Hancock. The best and the worst of them,” Bohanin said.

  “And Hooker. Don’t forget ole Fightin’ Joe,” Doc Whitehead said.

  “Busted me from Colonel to Captain and that’s where I stayed,” Bohanin said with a smile as he poured himself a third glass.

  “Would you a done it different if you had the chance?” Whitehead asked.

  “Hell, no,” Bohanin said.

  White chuckled as he poured himself another round. “You’re lucky he didn’t have ya shot.”