Blanchard County
by Robert Gilbert
The remaining days of warmth were dwindling; the air was turning continually cool, noticeably becoming thin, and changes to the season were slowly being felt. All around that part of upper Colorado, I felt the last dying embers of a temperate summer slowly being replaced with occasional chilly breezes wafting down from Wyoming. Around there we called it the welcome of autumn. Sunny days becoming shorter, darkness would take away the hours. Soon, the embrace of fall meant a blanket of red-orange leaves from barren trees would dominate a portion of scenery, a backdrop peppered here and there with tall pines, erect as arrows, jutting out of the hard earth and dusty trails. The recycle of seasons was gradual but inevitable, destined to leave hues of beautiful foliage all around, awaiting the first nod of winter. That was what I felt: a noticeable chill in my lungs. I raised my duster collar a bit to protect me from the continual nip across my face, and I often wondered when the oatmeal color clouds would open up to once again to pour out the heated comfort of a glowing sun.
At the moment, though, the place where I stood was near the rapidly moving Clay River. I watched as the ferocious current splashed wildly against rocks and boulders of various sizes, cutting through curved earth in an extended flow, and snaking out of sight. The river began some distance north o' there, maybe two miles upstream. Ever'body we knew told the same story 'bout that sizeable spread o' land, as Blanchard County weren't exactly the most hospitable place to be in. I'd been through there before on other business, and I had to agree that it wasn't one o' my favorite places, no matter what season of year it was.
The townsfolk back in Cheyenne River often mentioned that Blanchard County wasn't fit for decent people. Matter of fact, it was often brought to my attention by Nade Lackey, the town sot, who loved nothin' more than to recite his biased opinions, yelling his rants out in harsh tones across the open space of the Thunder Basin Saloon.
Nade explained to me in his pronounced Alabama drawl, "Ya know somethin', Marshal Brothers? Blanchard County ain't no place to be friendly. I'd bet my last two bits on that. True as my word, that place ain't nothin', all 'cause o' two ruthless people givin' orders, spoutin' off at the mouth and tellin' people what to do. Them scoundrels, Bob Tibbins and his brother Enos, are to blame. Them two scare ever'body in that county plumb silly, just ta make sure things in that countryside meet their satisfaction. They do things their way, and they mean business. That's why those snakes push people 'round. They got some nasty ways o' persuasion too. Their heavy influence gets their point across, I s'pose, unfriendly as it is. Course, I reckon you already know them two are up ta no good, no matter what them folks say in Meredosia Springs, smack dab in the middle o' the county."
I listened to Nade and agreed with a nod but said nothing in response. At the same time, Nadine Merit, the saloon whore, walked over to freshen my coffee. She deliberately blocked my view of Nade when she bent over. She poured slowly, makin' sure to expose her ample but well-used utters in my direction, hopin' to entice me into some pleasure later. When she smiled, the crack between her lips revealed rows of burnished yellow.
At Clay River, I did my best to coax my bay a bit farther downstream, where the current began to settle into a lazy waterway. The river continued to bathe against rock formations, now releasing a gentler trickling sound instead of the vibrant, intense rush I'd heard upstream. In that spot, it wasn't all that deep, but it was suitable to carry what remained of Doss Troyer's body with its ripples. He was facedown, and his head continued bobbing against a cluster of rocks. It didn't take long to guess that he'd taken a shot in the back and was probably dumped where he was found. Not only that, but the fresh wagon wheel ruts near the river's edge let me know Troyer was shot elsewhere and his remains were emptied there. I couldn't rightly tell if he was dead before he was offloaded, but it sure did look that way to me.
The day before, back in Cheyenne River, a youngster of no more than 14 came in to my office. The kid was out o' breath, shivering slightly as he stood in front of my desk and said, "You gotta help us, Marshal." The boy had a thin build, and dark, wild eyes that were widened in alarm, he spoke in a troubled voice, choked and raw.
"What's your problem, son?" I said, easing back in my chair. "Hey, ain't you Doss Troyer's boy, Haggy?"
"Yes, sir, that'd be me."
"You been comin' to town with your pa ever' so often for supplies, ain't ya?" My eyes fixed on a young man dressed in light brown work clothes, faded suspenders and unpolished boots. He gave the impression that seasonal farm work around their homestead was finished, just in time for autumn's arrival.
"Pa had a run-in against the Tibbins brothers. They ain't but bad awful scum, Marshal." "I'm listenin'," I said, leaning farther back in my chair and knitting my fingers together behind my head.
"Chores was all done by afternoon," the boy continued. "Got 'em done quicker than usual 'cause coolness sets in earlier ever' day now till spring."
"Go on," I pressed as his young eyes widened with concern.
"Pa said, 'Let's go to Meredosia Springs.' See, he knows I really favor that new Winchester in Mr. Strong's mercantile. Been lookin' at it for a pert' long time. We hitched the wagon, and off we rode. We followed the outer bank o' Clay River maybe a half-hour or so. Pa knows a longer way, through Upper Narrow Bend, but it was too cold for just an easy ride."
"So ya ride the short Clay River run?" I asked, in a quiet but resolving firmness.
The youngster's black eyes sharpened as he continued, "Yeah. When we got to town," he said, his tight expression relaxing into a steady smile, "we pulled up in front of the mercantile and stepped off the wagon. Was feelin' real good 'bout lookin' at that rifle. Jus' plumb tickled."
"I'm guessin' your wonderful story has some conflicting emotions to it," I said.
Instantly, his smile faded. "Yeah. Even 'fore we set foot in the store, these two men come up and had words with Pa, hard, mean-soundin' words. They claimed some money was due them 'cause o' some property situation, somethin' about our land not all bein' ours. It was grownup stuff. I don't know for sure."
"There's nothin' wrong with your land," I said. "Your pa mentioned the feud to me before. I'm guessin' them two are named Bob an' Enos, right?" I asked with a note of impatience.
The boy agreed, nodding.
I stood and walked the boy to my office door and opened it. Right away, a cool burst of air brushed against our bodies.
"Haggy, go on back home now and let me take care of business. Like ya said, this is grownup stuff."
"What ya gonna do 'bout it, Marshal?"
"Well, for starters, sounds like I'm gonna have a serious discussion over in Blanchard County. We'll talk again soon."
With a worried look on his face, the kid mounted up and rode north and west, and I watched dust kick up until he was out of sight.
Later, after I found Doss Troyer's body, I returned to Cheyenne River. I fetched two trusted townsfolk to take a wagon ride to retrieve the deceased. Directions were given, and soon thereafter, the sound of hooves and wagon wheels disappeared into the north end of town.
Word spread quickly about the situation, and I soon found myself in the company of Mrs. Morgan, our school teacher and the mother of three children. "I can take care of Haggy as long as he needs me to," she generously offered. "My husband and I can help work the Troyer land till he's old enough and settled on his own."
After that discussion, I mounted up and rode out to the Troyer spread, as it was my grim duty to tell young Haggy about his pa. The boy didn't say much after welcoming me inside. His cheeks were red and glossy with tears, and he didn't have to guess why I was there. The silence loomed between us like a heavy mist, until he finally managed to put some words together.
"Dead, ain't he?" he said, slow and painful.
I nodded and explained where his pa was found. "He's being brought back to Cheyenne River," I said. To give the boy some comfort, I tried to mention Mrs. Morgan's kind offer, but Haggy showed little interest in that.
More tears spilled, and his face twisted into a glowering mask of rage. After a bit of sobbing and angry fist-poundin' on their kitchen table, the orphan finally began to calm down and did his best to express a warm glow in his smile. "Nice of that teacher, I guess," he muttered under his breath.
"Yeah, real nice," I said. "They're good people."
We rode together back to Cheyenne River. Words between us were few, and when he did speak, it was a slew of upsetting revenge talk, followed by sniffling over memories of his pa and the years they'd spent together. His mind was young and sharp, and his recollections were many.
The next day came early for me. In my office I sipped from a cup of coffee and I pondered my plans for the day ahead. As it turned out, Mrs. Morgan was also up early and was standing in front of me before I finished the next swallow from my tin utensil.
"Things are gonna be fine, Marshal," she said in a warm tone. "Our family will take care of Haggy as if he's one of our own. No doubt to that fact."
"Thank you," I said, my voice relaxed.
"He'll get good schoolin' from me and turn into a fine young man. Also, the crops on his land will be taken care of. No doubt about that either."
"I'm blessed by what you're doin'," I said, then took my time to finish the last sip of brew before it got cold. I stood, smiling with satisfaction, then bid her goodbye. It was a relief to know Haggy had found himself a good family to take him in.
Silence lengthened in the office after the kindhearted teacher left. I knew it was my responsibility as a lawman to find answers to the questions, namely over a land dispute and the Tibbins brothers that many claimed were carrying on with a hard hand inside the boundaries of Blanchard County. I grabbed a rifle from the gun rack near my desk, put on my heavy coat, locked the door, and walked in the direction of Adloff Stable at the edge of town.
I found Tom Adloff shaping a horseshoe, with sparks dancing in every direction. He momentarily stopped and watched as I saddled my bay. "None o' my business, Warren Brothers," he said, turning away from the anvil.
"What do ya mean by that, Tom?" I asked, arching my brow at him.
He nodded toward my rifle. "When you carry that, it tells me our lawman is on serious business someplace, maybe someplace in Blanchard County. Course, I'm only guessin', Marshal." His eyes studied me for a long moment.
"You have a pretty good idea," I said matter-of-factly, in a husky whisper.