Law at Angel's Landing: A Western Story Read online

  First Skyhorse Publishing edition published 2014 by arrangement with Golden West Literary Agency

  Copyright © 2010 by the Estate of Wayne D. Overholser

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Cover design by Brian Peterson

  Print ISBN: 978-1-62914-377-4

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-63220-019-8

  Printed in the United States of America

  Chapter One

  I was in Yager’s Bar along with the other town fathers of Angel’s Landing when I heard the news that changed my life. In fact, it changed the lives of everyone who lived in Angel’s Landing, and in all of Bremer County for that matter.

  I included myself among the town fathers because I owned the only livery stable in town and was sheriff of the county, though I was younger than the others by more than twenty years, maybe too young to be called a town father.

  Anyhow, I was standing at the bar along with Rip Yager, who owned the place, Kirk Bailey, who ran the Mercantile, Doc Jenner, and Joe Steele, the owner of the hotel. Outside of the county officials who came from the west end of the county, we were about the only ones in town who owned as much as the shirts on our backs.

  At one time Angel’s Landing had been a rip-roaring mining camp with as many as 5,000 people. That was when the strike above town on Banjo Creek brought men from all over the San Juans to Angel’s Landing. I don’t know who gave the camp its name, but it must have been some prospector from California where that kind of name was common. It sure didn’t fit in Colorado where there weren’t any boat landings and certainly no angels, but we were stuck with the name and we accepted it.

  I’m Mark Girard. I’d lived in the county for eighteen years. My folks were among the first to arrive from Durango when the road was no more than a goat trail. It took a brave woman to make the trip on horseback, but my mother was a brave woman. She had to be to have followed my father all over the Colorado Rockies the way she had, but I never heard her complain.

  I’d better qualify that last statement. I never heard her complain until after the mines petered out and my father wanted to move on. He was like most of the men in the mining country, always figuring he’d make it big the next time there was a gold strike. The majority never even made good wages and my father was part of that majority. This time my mother put her foot down.

  “I’ve gone with you whenever and wherever you wanted,” she said to my father, “risking my life and Mark’s life just because you thought you’d get rich the next time somebody yelled he’d struck gold. You haven’t and I don’t believe you ever will. This time we’re staying here. We’ve got a comfortable house. I’ve got a garden, a cow, and a flock of chickens. This is our home.”

  My father looked at her as if she’d gone daft. “There’s nothing here no more, Martha. There never was much, just a pocket of gold up yonder on the creek that played out a month ago. In a few more weeks Angel’s Landing will be a ghost town.”

  “Then we’ll be ghosts,” she shot back at him. “It’s not fair to me to keep chasing the end of the rainbow and it’s not fair to Mark, changing schools or winding up where there isn’t any school at all.” She shook her head. “I ain’t holding you, Tom. Go anywhere you want to, but we’re staying.”

  I was sitting in the kitchen and I remember the argument well, mostly because my parents had seldom argued about anything. My father had always called the shots and my mother had accepted any decision he made, but a mild woman can be stubborn when she has been pushed far enough and this time my mother had been pushed to that point.

  My father couldn’t believe he’d heard right. He yelled and stormed around for an hour, saying that a big strike had been made on the Dolores River above Rico, and he wasn’t missing out on it. My mother simply turned her back and quit talking. My father got red in the face and was breathing so hard I thought he’d fall over in a fit, but he didn’t. Finally he gave up and stomped out of the house. He saddled his horse and rode away, and that was the last we heard of him until a short time before his death.

  I was scared when all the shouting had been going on. After my father left, I began to cry. When my mother turned to me, I saw that she had been crying, too. That stopped me. I’d seen my mother too tired to stand up, sick almost to death, and so hungry she was physically weak, but I had never seen her cry before.

  I got up and went to her and said: “We’ll make out, Ma. I’ll get a job.”

  She put her arms around me and hugged and kissed me. “Of course we’ll make out, Mark. We haven’t starved before and we’re not going to now.”

  Within a month Angel’s Landing was close to being a ghost town just as my father had said. I remember walking along Main Street with its few brick structures and the long, double line of false-fronted frame buildings. Almost every one was vacant.

  Just a few weeks before all of them had been occupied: stores, banks, offices, and a lot of saloons, gambling places, and whorehouses. Horses, buggies, freight wagons, and stagecoaches had filled the street until the traffic was so thick that it was hard to get to the other side. After the exodus I was lucky if I saw a cowboy’s horse or Doc Jenner’s buggy at one of the hitch rails.

  I tried to get a job but there wasn’t work for a man, let alone a ten-year-old boy. We might have starved when winter came and our garden stuff gave out if my mother hadn’t been given the teacher’s job. We didn’t have more than five kids in school any time when I attended. The pay wasn’t much, but it was enough to buy groceries to go along with the eggs and milk we had.

  Through all those years Angel’s Landing didn’t have more than a hundred people and those people didn’t change much. Doc Jenner had been there from the first and he stayed because he said he liked the country. He traveled all over Bremer County either in his buggy, if he was going downstream to one of the ranches, or on a horse if he had to go back into the mountains to look after some prospector who had broken a leg or had an accident with powder.

  Rip Yager had a saloon in the early days and he stayed because there wasn’t any competition and he could live cheap. “A man needs less money here,” he’d say. “No place to spend it except over my bar or in Kirk’s Mercantile.”

  Kirk Bailey stayed for pretty much the same reason. “There ain’t many people around here,” he’d admit, “but the ones who are here have to eat and I’ve got eating stuff to sell ’em.”

  I never told him, but the truth was he didn’t have much to sell that we could eat. He didn’t have anything else to speak of, either, just a few tools, powder for prospectors, clothes, guns, and tobacco. When Ma had to have cloth to make a dress for herself or a shirt for me, she went to Durango if she could combine it with seeing a dentist or going to a bank.

  A stage brought the mail in twice a week. Sometimes
she’d send an order with the stage driver, but, if she had to go, she’d rent a buggy from old Abe Riggs who ran the livery stable in those days. I always went with her until I was old enough to work regular because the road wasn’t much better than it had been the first time we came over it.

  When I was twelve years old, I got a summer job on a ranch about ten miles downstream from Angel’s Landing. At first I was just a chore boy, but the boss liked me and I sort of grew into being a cowboy so it wasn’t long until I had a full-time job. Ma had taught me all she could, but she kept after me to read and would order a book whenever she heard of one she thought I’d like.

  We didn’t hear a word from my father and after a while we gave up hoping. My mother never talked much about him, but one time at Christmas, when I guess we both were missing him more than usual, she said: “He’s got too much pride to come back until he makes his strike and the chances are he never will.”

  The other kids grew up and left Angel’s Landing because there wasn’t any future for them there. I guess there wasn’t much future for me, either, but I knew my mother would never leave, so I stayed with my job, going home every weekend and at Christmas. I was satisfied, maybe not being very ambitious and not craving excitement the way most boys did.

  Besides, when my mother got too stove-up with rheumatism to teach, a young woman from Durango named Abbie Trevor came to town and took the school. I was the only young man around and she was the only young woman, so we just gravitated toward each other. I never figured I was in love with her or she was in love with me, but she was comfortable to be with and I figured that someday we’d get married, though we never talked much about it.

  My father showed up late one spring three days after we got a letter saying that he was coming. It was just before my mother died. She’d been failing pretty fast. She told me one day that she wished she knew what had happened to my father before she died. I tried to tell her she wasn’t going to die, but she knew better. She was pleased to get the letter, which was the first we’d heard from him since he’d left, and it gave her a new lease on life.

  I met the stage that my father came on. He was older than his years and more twisted up with rheumatism than my mother was. I guess I’d hated him for going off and leaving us, but I didn’t hate him when I shook hands with him. It was too late to hate him. It was plain enough that he’d come back to die.

  He walked home with me, moving very slowly as if each step hurt him. He hadn’t said much when he got off the stage, just that he wouldn’t have known me if I hadn’t told him who I was. That wasn’t to be wondered at, seeing as I was ten years old when he left Angel’s Landing and I was twenty-eight when he returned. I had no trouble recognizing him, though he was only the shell of the man I remembered.

  My mother had either been in bed or in her rocking chair for the past month, but the day my father got back she was up, wearing her best silk dress and having dinner on the stove. If it had been me, I think I’d have slammed the door in his face, but she didn’t.

  She stood on the porch, waiting for him to come up the walk. When he stepped beside her, she remained for a long moment, looking up at him, then she said—“Welcome home, Tom.”—and hugged and kissed him. She cried a little and he cried, and I went back to the woodshed and worked with the bucksaw for a while.

  It was a strange thing and I never pretended to understand how or why these things happen, but it was almost as if my mother had clung to life just long enough to see my father. The day after he got home she went to bed and a week later she was dead.

  I had given up my ranch work and was living in Angel’s Landing, having been elected sheriff a few months before. Since the county and town were peaceful enough, I didn’t have much to do and I was able to stay home most of the time and look after my father. I knew this wouldn’t last because there would be times when I’d be busy, but for the moment I was free to take care of him.

  He was almost helpless, spending his waking hours in a big leather chair in the front room near the window where he could look out into the street that ran in front of our house. He could take care of himself as far as dressing and eating and tending to his bodily functions went, but that was all. I knew and I’m sure he knew that one day soon he’d simply give up and die.

  He didn’t say much. He just sat and stared into the street, maybe thinking about the old days when Angel’s Landing had been a boom town. One day he thanked me for looking after him and I could see he wanted to talk, so I pulled up a chair and filled and lighted my pipe.

  “I knew before I left Montana that if I didn’t get here when I did,” he said, “I’d never make it. Of course I didn’t know whether your ma was still alive or not. I wouldn’t have blamed her or you if you’d said you never saw me before in your life. It sure as hell was what I deserved.”

  I kept my mouth shut because that was what I thought. I just sat there and puffed on my pipe and waited to hear what else he had to say.

  “Looking for gold gets hold of a man just like poker or whiskey does,” he went on, “and with the wisdom of hindsight, I knew your ma was right. We all would have been better off if I’d taken a job somewhere and made a home for you and her. I kept thinking I’d make a strike and I could buy her all the things I dreamed about, but the truth was she never wanted them and I was too short-sighted to give her the one thing she wanted, a home.”

  He was short of breath. He stopped and puffed for a while, then said: “It takes a fool to chase the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Sometimes even when you know where it is, it still slips out of your fingers. That happened to me more’n once. When I did make my strike, I was too damned old and tired to work my claim, so I sold out and it was the other fellow who got rich off of it.” He jerked a thumb toward the bedroom. “Go fetch my valise, will you?”

  I brought it to him and laid it on his lap. He opened it and took out a tin box. He handed it to me, saying: “It’s yours, boy. You deserve it and then some, looking after your ma and staying here like you done. I don’t figure most sons would have done that. This was the only home she’d had since she was a girl, and I knew how much she thought of it. Only thing is I wish she had lived so the money could have done her some good.”

  I opened the box and looked at the biggest pile of greenbacks I ever saw in my life. Some were old and wadded up, and some looked as if they’d just been run off the press. They were of all denominations, but mostly big ones. I guess I stopped breathing for a while, thinking of all the things I could do with that money. When I looked up to thank him, I saw it was too late. He really had stopped breathing, his head tipped forward on his chest.

  Like I said, I don’t pretend to understand these things, but once he gave me the money, his heart quit beating. I don’t know why, and I didn’t know how or when he’d made his strike. Maybe it was just as well he died when he did; maybe he’d never made a strike at all.

  Chapter Two

  I counted the money and found that there was more than $10,000 in the tin box. If my father had not made a strike, where did he get that much money? If, on the other hand, he had made the strike he said he had, why were some of the greenbacks wadded up, looking as if he had carried them in his pocket for fifteen years, and other greenbacks as new-appearing as if he had just run them off the press?

  I will admit I had a vague notion that maybe he’d held up a bank or a train or a stage. There had been a lot of hold-ups in recent years, with Butch Cassidy and some of his friends being very active, but the Wild Bunch wasn’t likely to include a man as old and bunged-up as my father must have been for several years.

  Finally I quit stewing about it and accepted the fact that suddenly I had become a rich man, and I didn’t have to account to anyone about where I got the money. The evening after my father was buried I walked to the teacherage, a one-room cabin back of the schoolhouse that was less than a block from my house. I asked Abbie Trevor to come to my place, that I had something to show her.

  She hesitate
d, as if wondering what I could possibly have in my house that would interest her. She finally nodded and walked back with me. She was a tall woman, almost as tall as I was. Not exactly pretty, but certainly attractive, or she was to me at least. I think this quality stemmed more from her personality than her good figure or perfect features, which in my judgment she didn’t have.

  Abbie made her own clothes. She had got along very well with my mother and had often spent a day at our house when school wasn’t in session and had my mother help her with the dresses she was making. She had black hair and very dark brown eyes, the kind of coloring that set her apart from drab, run-of-the-mill women, and I’m sure this helped create my feeling that she was attractive. Along with this was the fact that Abbie read a good deal, and I often got into discussions with her that were thought-provoking and on subjects I would never talk about to Rip Yager or anyone else in Angel’s Landing.

  In many ways Abbie was like my mother and I had made up my mind that she was a woman I could spend the rest of my life with. I aimed to marry her and now I was a little nervous when I considered what I was about to do. Having been a bachelor as long as I had, I was reluctant to change my way of life.

  I kept glancing at her, and then looking away. I must have irritated her because she asked tartly: “Have I got some dirt on the end of my nose?”

  “Oh, no,” I said, and then added: “I just like to look at you.”

  “Oh,” she said, and gave me a questioning look as if I’d lost what good sense I’d been born with.

  I had her sit at the kitchen table and then brought the tin box out from the bedroom. I set it on the table in front of her and said: “Open it.”

  She glanced at me again, still questioning what I was up to, I guess. She asked: “What is it, Pandora’s box?”

  “No,” I said. “It’s filled with good things.”

  She opened it and gasped, and then stared at the money as if she were frozen. Finally she shook her head and said: “I didn’t think there was that much money in the world.”