CHAPTERONE
Hewey Calloway was looking forward to a café breakfast, even if he had to wait around until after daylight for it. In Hewey’s profession such a waste of early morning hours was considered shameful. Townsfolk had more leisurely habits, he reasoned, and it was no more his place to criticize them for their habits than it would be for them to object to his scuffed and worn boots.
He had spent the night at the wagonyard in Durango, intending to pass straight on through town on the way to visit his friend Hanley Baker several miles to the northeast. That plan meant he would be cooking his own breakfast, and he would freely admit to being a lousy cook. A café meal sounded much more to his liking, especially at the little establishment he knew from previous experience turned out an excellent pan of biscuits.
He had eaten little but his own cooking for some time and would be obliged to eat plenty more soon enough, so he sat on the edge of the plank porch outside the café, watching the sun peek over the mountains to the east. His brown horse stood balanced on three legs, saddled and tied to the rail several feet down the porch.
Hewey was a West Texas cowboy who tried not to think too much about his age, but he could not help but notice that he didn’t recover as well as he did in his youth.
Anymore a bad wreck or a good night in town was harder to get over, and since turning thirty several years back there had been a slight stiffness in the morning, and that was on the good mornings. Not enough to change his ways, by any means, but certainly enough to notice.
He had left his home range about a year before, bound for Durango with a herd of young horses that his old friend Alvin Lawdermilk had sold to a Colorado ranch. It was supposed to be a relatively straightforward affair; deliver the horses, collect the payment, and return home with the money.
Things got out of hand, however, and here he was in Durango a year later with plans to go north rather than south. Oh, well, he had reasoned, he had always wanted to see new country, and this was a good opportunity to do just that.
The idea of seeing Canada had always appealed to him, although he couldn’t have explained exactly why, not even to himself, other than it was a place he had never been.
And that had always been reason enough for him.
* * *
The street was dimly lit by electric streetlamps that hung suspended by overhead cables. Light glinted off a pair of small railroad irons that ran down the center of the dirt street. Hewey had heard there was an electric streetcar in town, but so far he had not seen it.
Light suddenly spilled onto the porch from behind him, and Hewey looked around to see that a middle-aged couple, probably man and wife, had entered the café from the back and were hustling around preparing for the morning rush.
Soon the lady noticed him and unlocked the door, beckoning as she did for him to come inside.
Hewey had just finished ordering when he caught sight of a familiar face and form; La Plata County Chief Deputy Frank Wiggins was making his way to Hewey’s table. Wiggins had reddish-blond hair and a mustache to match it. Hewey had spent a good bit of time with Wiggins the previous year during the trouble with Billy Joe Bradley. The two men had become friends of a sort.
“Is there room for two, Mr. Calloway?”
“You bet, and the name’s just Hewey. I have to warn you, though, there won’t be a biscuit left in the house by the time I’ve had my fill.”
“Looks like we’re leading up to a rassling match, then,” Wiggins said with a broad grin, “because I’m partial to the biscuits here myself.”
The waitress, unbidden, brought Wiggins a cup of black coffee and asked if he would like his usual breakfast, which he did. There were not that many choices anyway.
Wiggins sat in silence for a moment, a serious look on his face. “What I have to tell you may spoil your appetite, but you deserve to know. Billy Joe Bradley won’t be causing any more trouble on this earth.”
“Nothing wrong with that news,” Hewey replied seriously, his mouth partway full of sausage.
“It’s the second part you won’t like,” Wiggins said. “He found a way to cheat the hangman.”
Hewey’s face turned grim. “What happened?”
“When it was time to transfer him, the penitentiary sent two guards. The guards and Bradley rode in the caboose so there wouldn’t be any danger to innocent passengers if something went wrong. And it did.
“Bradley somehow disarmed one of the guards. It was a suicide move with the other guard sitting right there and still armed. Bradley made a move toward the second guard with the pistol, who had no choice but to shoot him. The guards said Bradley died with a smile on his face.”
Hewey sat staring glumly at the table for a full minute or more; then his usual grin reappeared. “I don’t like the news,” he said, “but I’m glad you told me. That son of a bitch is dead, and I guess that’s all that matters. And I’m especially glad you told me here, where I can bury my grief under a pile of good biscuits. Hanley Baker will have to hear about it over my cookin’—or worse, his own.”
The two men stood on the plank porch outside for a few minutes after breakfast, each enjoying a hand-rolled cigarette, and then Wiggins offered his hand. “It’s been a pleasure, Hewey,” he said. “But next time you come through here, leave the excitement elsewhere, would you?”
Hewey took the deputy’s hand and grinned. “Don’t you worry. I stay so far out of trouble it never even knows I’m around. This whole deal here was a pure rarity for me.”
“Sometimes I believe you might tell a windy now and then, Hewey. I’m thinking this might be one of those times.”
CHAPTERTWO
Hewey left Durango at a trot, headed basically northeast along what was more a trail than a road, although it was just wide enough for the occasional wagon that passed through headed to the homesteads and ranches scattered throughout the mountains. The real traffic, if any could be termed traffic, stuck to the main road a few miles farther east that led to settlements higher in the mountains. The trail Hewey traveled wound through a wide valley surrounded by soaring mountains on either side.
Hewey could identify nearly every type of tree, grass, or cactus in West Texas, but he hadn’t yet learned exactly what these Colorado trees were called. He knew they were pine, and he knew they were taller than any tree he had seen since leaving East Texas with his younger brother, Walter, two decades earlier.
“Biscuit, it’s time for us to find some country where we can see a little ways,” he said. Like many cowboys, Hewey would occasionally hold a conversation with his horse. He was a talker, and there were times when his horse was the only one around to listen. “Sometimes I get to feeling a little closed in by these mountains and trees. Kind of gives me a funny feeling.”
The storm had come up quickly, as they are prone to do in mountain country. Rain began to fall, thunder was rolling, and Hewey could see bright flashes of lightning against the darkening sky.
He remembered a cluster of cows he had come onto once.
They were burned to a crisp because they made the mistake of brushing up under a tree in a storm. He’d heard that lightning almost always struck the tallest tree in the vicinity, but these trees all towered over him, and he had no idea which one was the tallest. His skin prickled at the thought of such a blazing demise, and the more his skin prickled, the more he thought about it.
Soon he caught the smell of smoke on the wind, which was blowing straight into his face. Either the forest was on fire ahead of him, in which case he desperately needed to be somewhere else, or there was a house up ahead. He thought the smoke smelled like dry wood. It was coming from a fireplace or a stove. He hoped.
Hewey came up on a cabin in a small clearing made up of only a couple acres. A crude barn and lean-to stall with a log-rail pen stood near the cabin. He was still some miles shy of where he expected to find Hanley Baker, but any place would do if it would keep him out of the weather, which was becoming worse.
It seemed that lightning was striking all around him. The old saying about lightning striking the tallest object had made him nervous when he was under the tall trees, but crossing the clearing toward the cabin and barn he was even more nervous. Now he was the tallest object. Hewey urged Biscuit into a fast lope to shorten the time they were exposed.
To both his surprise and elation, he and Biscuit made the shelter of the barn without being struck. He unsaddled Biscuit and turned him loose in the lean-to. There was evidence of recent activity in the barn, although not much of it. There were horse tracks but no horse. Hewey studied the cabin as best he could through the rain but saw no movement. He was soaked and cold and wanting a fire, so he sprinted to the cabin door, paused on the small porch, and knocked.
“Go away!” came a hoarse voice from inside. “Ain’t no place for anybody here.”
“But it’s stormin’ out here,” Hewey answered. “Surely you won’t turn a man away in this kind of weather.”
“Go to the barn!” The voice was weak but emphatic.
“Just come from there. It leaks somethin’ terrible.”
“There’s things worse than water down your collar.”
Thunder cracked near enough it made Hewey jump, and the image of those lightning-struck cows popped into his head. Tired of waiting for an invitation, Hewey forced the door. The smell hit him immediately, but he was already inside. The cabin was small and had only one room, which contained a small kitchen, an ancient wooden table with two chairs, and a sagging bed.
The only occupant was a lone young man lying in the sagging bed. The man tried to rise, but he made only an inch or so before wilting back into the bed. All Hewey could see was the man’s face, which was gaunt and covered in angry bumps that appeared to be filled with fluid. “Get out. I’ve got smallpox,” the man said quietly but firmly.
Hewey felt like he’d been kicked in the belly by a horse. His back was pressed to the door, and he would have backed farther had there been room. He didn’t turn and flee, although he sorely wanted to. Hewey had never been close to smallpox, but he had heard some awful stories over the years.
Since Hewey was a small boy there hadn’t been much that really scared him, neither man nor beast. But the thought of smallpox frightened him terribly.
“I tried to warn you off, mister, but you wouldn’t listen.” The man lay wrapped in two blankets but was still shivering violently.
“How long have you been like this?” Hewey asked quietly from across the room.
“Don’t know,” the man answered weakly. “Sometimes I wake up and there’s light through the windows. Sometimes it’s dark outside.”
“So you’ve been here for days,” Hewey said. “Who’s takin’ care of you?”
“I’m on my own,” was the reply. “Couple of little girls been keepin’ the bucket outside full of water from the stream. They run and hide before I can get out the door, but I saw them once through the window. I fetch water from the bucket with a lard can when I’m able.”
“What about food?”
“Don’t recall the last time I ate. It’s been a while. I had some old biscuits and a little jerky, but it’s gone. I haven’t been able to fix anything else. Now, like I told you before, you need to go. You don’t want this.”
“If I was to leave, you’d die right there in that bed,” Hewey told him bluntly, “and I don’t want you on my conscience. You’ve got help now whether you like it or not.”
The man just shook his head, too weak to protest further. Hewey, for perhaps the first time in his life, wondered briefly if he was being foolish.
* * *
The sick man closed his eyes and fell into a fitful sleep. He wasn’t the first person to tire after an argument with Hewey Calloway, nor was he likely to be the last. The rain continued outside, although the thunder and lightning grew distant as darkness fell. Standing on the porch, Hewey ate a couple stale biscuits out of his saddlebags. He had a few supplies of his own, but a quick inspection of the cabin showed meager supplies at best. Hewey knew he would need to look for something more substantial in the morning.
The porch was damp, but Hewey unrolled his blankets there rather than inside the cabin. He was close enough to hear the man should he be needed. Hewey had slept as many nights outdoors as in, although mostly by necessity rather than choice. In this case it was choice. A smallpox patient wasn’t Hewey’s idea of the perfect roommate. The cabin was also in need of some cleaning. The man obviously had not been able to take care of himself in his weakened state, and Hewey would have to tend to it in the morning, like it or not.
Hewey was up before the sun the next morning. He tended to Biscuit first, feeding him some oats he found in the old barn. Later he’d stake the brown horse on some green grass. “Biscuit, I don’t know that I’ve ever wanted to saddle up and move on more than I do right now. But I reckon we better stick for now.”
The sick man was sleeping, and sleeping well considering the circumstances, Hewey thought. He left the door open to let in some fresh air, and he cleaned as best he could with so few resources. Cleaning suited Hewey less than farming, but he saw no alternative. He felt better knowing no one saw him do it. He checked his patient again. The young man didn’t seem to have a fever at the moment, so Hewey took his carbine and slipped into the woods in search of something they might could eat.
* * *
The deer Hewey shot was a young doe. He never had been much of a shot with a pistol, but he was a fair hand with his carbine, good enough at least to keep himself fed. He wrapped most of the carcass in the tarp from his bedroll and hung it in the barn for protection against scavengers and other varmints. He hauled a hindquarter into the cabin. The man—Hewey still didn’t have a name for him—lay still and quiet as Hewey carved off two slabs of meat and eased them into the hot grease in his frying pan.
As Hewey cooked, he checked on his patient. The man had been fevered earlier, but Hewey’s nursing skills, poor as he knew them to be, had worked. Cold compresses torn from an old flour sack had broken the fever, and the man roused from his fitful sleep.
“Is that food I smell?” he asked in a low voice.
“Venison,” Hewey replied. “You need to eat a bit, and we’ll see how it sits before we try some more.”
“God, I sure am hungry.”
“Ain’t much to work with here, but I found a couple of pans, so we’ll have gravy to go with the meat, and biscuits of a sort, too. I ain’t the best cook.”
“Don’t know how much I can handle, but I’m sure gonna make a stab at it.”
“By the way, what do I call you? My name’s Hewey Calloway.”
The man in the bed hesitated for a few seconds before replying. “Wilson. Bob Wilson.”
Hewey had known a few men over the years who answered to names their mothers never called them. He was pretty sure he could add Bob Wilson to that list.
* * *
Hewey had been at the cabin about a week and a half by his reckoning, though it had seemed like a month. He wasn’t accustomed to spending so much time indoors or staying in one place so long, and the itch to move on, to be horseback and gone, was becoming hard to resist.
During his stay, the pustules he had first seen on Bob Wilson’s face and body had gradually scabbed over. Many of the scabs were now falling off. Wilson’s bouts of fever had largely faded as well. The man had been up frequently, and when Hewey returned from a short hunting trip, he found Wilson outside, soaking up the summer sun.
Hewey guessed Wilson’s age at somewhere in his early to midtwenties, although Wilson sure had not volunteered that or any other information of much importance. He was a grown man, but just barely. He was handsome in a youthful way, a hair taller than Hewey, and slim. He had the look and clothing of a cowpuncher, but he had passed up several opportunities to talk about it.
“You must be feeling better,” Hewey said after hanging the fresh venison in the barn.
Copyright © 2024 by Steve Kelton Estate
