Highwaymen 2

Joseph settled into the drafty log structure after a thorough going over with broom and shovel. The sand and debris had accumulated three inches thick in the corners and edges due to its open state of neglect. Furnishings were few; a couple of reed-seated side chairs and a frontier bench, but only one item remaining was a necessity, the broad topped cast iron stove, centrally located in the living space.

The wind whistled through cracks between the logs since virtually all of the chinking had crumbled to dust. The place was going to require some extensive work but the bones were solid and the cedar shake roof was at least passable.

After unhitching the wagon and horses, McKenna took the opportunity to walk the property and familiarize himself further with this new adventure. There was a well house out front with a frayed rope and bucket for retrieval. Joseph hoisted the wooden pail and gave it a whiff to see if the water was potable. Clean, clear and cool, he gladly took a sip then set out to lead the horses down to the creek to slack their thirst.

Running alongside the steady flowing stream, Joseph could see clear indications of attempts at cultivation. Most of the rows had faded with the incessant breeze but patches of wild wheat, corn and melon still remained though parched from lack of irrigation.

McKenna shook his head. He could only imagine how the previous tenant likely approached the task of watering his crops, standing ankle deep in the creek tossing or passing buckets one by one to feed the needy plant life. The method might have been effective in less arid climes, but the high plains had a ceaseless thirst, unquenched by spotty efforts such as that.

Joseph’s mechanically minded eye easily determined the remedy; a sixty-foot trench, controlled by a sluice gate, could have connected the field via the natural contours simply by digging an inlet at the creek’s higher elevation, one hundred yards to the north. One glance toward the family graveyard caused Joseph to grieve for their loss, likely preventable by this one simple act of engineering.

He returned to the cabin, determined to redeem this ranch and bring life and a living back to the dusty plateau.

**********^**********

The days passed quickly as McKenna busied himself with the many tasks necessary in the reclamation of a once treasured symbol of promise. Mixing clay with dried straw, the drafty gaps in the walls were sealed. He replaced the cracked, leather strap-hinges of the front door with factory forged pin swingers, a product of his former venue. Within one week, the old homestead became downright presentable!

The woodstove kept him warm and fed though the fare was sorely lacking in diversity. Snaring rabbit was a near effortless pursuit as their abundance approached the status of infestation. After several meals of the gamey rodent, questionable providence afforded Joseph the opportunity to sample a dime novel delicacy, high plains rattlesnake!

A three-footer had slithered out from under one of the loose floorboards to McKenna’s great trepidation. A quick sprint to retrieve the makeshift snake-snare from the barn rewarded the determined settler with a writhing mass of fresh reptilian cuisine. Split and stripped, he tacked the menacing skin to the timbers of the front porch then roasted the grayish chunks of meat.                                                                                           

McKenna noted the flavor to be that of “lamp-oily fish”, decidedly destined to join the growing ranks of the inedible in this new environment.

Though his supply of mealtime staples was more than adequate, fresh meat would not keep without preparation. Having stabilized the sod mound and shuttered the window openings, Joseph outfitted the former shelter, repurposed to become a big game smokehouse.

With his belly craving more civilized substance, McKenna prepared to saddle up and hunt the local antelope, spotted grazing in profusion throughout the valley. With his rifle in hand and Navy Colt at his hip, he grabbed his hat on his way out to the corral.

Joseph smiled as he glanced at the hat’s recent ornamentation, a belt made from the hide of the ill-fated rattler. Hating to waste the decorative band, he’d pondered what possible use he could employ, then in a moment of inspiration, it came to him. He’d remembered the tale of the Ouroborus, the ancient symbol for perpetuity, depicted by a ravenous snake eating its own tail. With the head as buckle and the fangs as clasps, Joseph declared his determination to carry on in this new land with every tip of his hat.

**********^**********

Saddled and mounted, he turned his robust draught horse toward the trail to begin running the ridge overlooking the valley below.

Two hours into riding the range, Joseph halted the beast to crane his ear and determine the source of a noise uncommon in this empty vastness, human voices. In possession of a good sense of reckoning, McKenna located the area, confirmed by the sight of movement in the distance along the valley trail.

He could make out no words but the tempo of their utterance suggested definite indications of distress. Descending the ridgeline, he wove his way through the brush and spotty evergreens in the hopes of getting a better look before approaching them openly. Many a settler became skittish on the open road, oftentimes shooting long before the asking of questions.

Dismounting discreetly, McKenna tied off his horse and proceeded on foot. Occasionally catching brief phrases, he was close enough to make distinctions between the voices; several males and at least one female … whimpering.

One of the men blurted out pained protests while the others seemed to sound amused, apparently quite pleased with themselves. At this, Joseph took to crawling the rest of the way, inching toward the ridge of the gully where the troubling drama was unfolding.

It was then that he was able to grasp the severity of the situation, three men accosting a family of likely travelers, settlers yet to arrive at their destination. One held sway over the other two with pistol in hand, directing their actions.

A heavy-set oaf draped in a threadbare overcoat was given the task of subduing the father with a boot planted in his lower back, clutching his hair and forcing him to watch. The other appeared to be in his younger twenties, pinning the woman to the ground on her back with an outstretched arm.

Joseph could not yet make out their faces as all three had their backs toward him, but the voice of the leader seemed vaguely familiar. Given the high sign by the man with the pistol, the dirty-blond molester proudly brandished a large hunting knife, gleaming in the midday sun.

The young cretin turned his head and smiled. It was then that McKenna got his first glimpse of recognition; it was Josiah Tucker’s loathsome associate! Identifying the other two became a simple matter of deduction.

Joseph anxiously searched for a means to defuse the situation. It became obvious what was next on their horrid agenda, a heinous violation of body and mind for the woman and indelibly tortured memories for those forced to witness the tragedy. McKenna had to act, and do so quickly.

With hoots of encouragement from his enthusiastic companions, the odious rascal positioned himself between the woman’s knees then guided the glinting blade between the house dress and her violently trembling skin, the tip emerging at the bodice. Turning the edge upward, he pulled the knife slowly back toward him as the fabric parted effortlessly to either side. The appearance was that of a man gutting a fish from the inside!

The husband bellowed in weeping anguish while his children sobbed uncontrollably in the back of their wagon, too small to warrant restraint. Joseph grit his teeth, desperate for an opportunity to intervene without acting out of sheer rashness.

Nothing came to him guaranteeing success with surety so McKenna would have to rely on his grim determination and firm standing on moral high ground. He grabbed a nearby stone and hurled it high and long towards the ridge beyond the trio, distracting their attentions until he could get in position. When all had turned, he quietly raced down the embankment, stopping at a place of perfect advantage in the flat behind them.

“Hold your place, the lot of you!!”

The men froze, slowly turning only their heads. McKenna had managed to maintain a clear line of fire for all three, avoiding the endangerment of their captives. Tucker’s pistol arm was in plain view, pointed toward the gully floor, while the large one eyed his shotgun, leaning against a rock behind him, just out of reach.

  

“Easy feller” Tucker said calmly. “We ain’t got no truck with you or yours, we were just funnin’ these folks.”  

Joseph glanced at the face of each family member, fraught with sheer terror.

“Funnin’!?” McKenna struggled to suppress his rage. “I don’t see none of them laughing!! Drop the six-gun to the ground and put your hands on top of your heads!”

Tucker shook his head, smiling in cocky swagger. “And if I don’t …?” Without moving his arm, he discreetly cocked the pistol, ready to fire.

The stalwart settler had had enough; he aimed his repeater just above Josiah’s elbow. Mimicking Tucker’s Kentucky twang, he gave his response.

“Suit yer self …”

McKenna exhaled softly then pulled the trigger. The thunderous report resounded off the canyon walls, followed closely by the tortured howl of the wretched leader’s cries of agony. The bullet shattered the bones of his upper arm, exiting the front and taking a sizable chunk in passing. Tucker’s Colt fell to the desert floor with a clatter.

Joseph shifted his attention to the burly associate, too dumbstruck to venture an attempt. He reluctantly raised his hands in compliance.

Bold as brass but duller than a burnt wick, the wall-eyed delinquent took this as his opportunity to retrieve the knife from his belt, now draped around his ankles.

“Boy, I’d just as soon spare a bullet and take out your good eye, now pull the pig sticker out by the fingertips and toss it to the side!”

Defiant but undeniably defeated, he did as instructed.

“And for God’s sake …pull your pants up!!”

McKenna gathered the uninjured highwaymen to either side of their wailing captain, positioning them on their knees prone and vulnerable. Once they were contained, his focus shifted to the victims.

He motioned to one of the girls. “Young lady, fetch me a blanket and bring it to your mama …quickly!”

The two of them leapt from the wagon, running to the troubled woman’s aid, draping her with the woolen cover.

With a watchful eye on the kneeling criminals, Joseph hurried to free the husband. “What’s your name sir?” he asked.

The man kept his attentions fixed on the young blond scoundrel as McKenna undid his bindings. “Name’s Stewart … Isaiah Stewart.” He shook McKenna’s hand despite the deep chafing of his wrists.

“Joseph McKenna, go see to your wife and we’ll talk later.”

With the innocent freed, Joseph set about trussing the three offenders with rawhide strips tied behind their backs, taking no small measure of delight at their discomfort.

Isaiah enveloped his wife with a tearful embrace then carefully checked to see if she’d sustained injury. He consoled his daughters, dropping to one knee and wiping their cheeks with his sleeve. Giving them assurance and comfort, he sent the three of them to rest in the wagon while he and this kind stranger dealt with the vile trio.  

With each step closer to the repulsive band, Stewart’s sorrow abated, replaced by a mounting sense of rage. While Joseph scanned the terrain to locate their horses, Isaiah paced before the three, stomping the dust with each footfall.

“Mr. McKenna …” he said. “Could I trouble you for your revolver?”

Tucker and his subordinates stirred at the request, exchanging anxious glances and muttering amongst themselves.

“I have a right … to justice!” Stewart added sternly.

Joseph sighed as he joined the despairing settler. “True enough Isaiah, I might be considering the same in your place but are you sure you want to go down that road?”

At this the three began to protest, fidgeting desperately in their bonds. Seemingly incapable of self-restraint, the wall-eyed masher blurted out their paltry defense.

“Hey! We didn’t hurt nobody!!”

The two men standing turned in unison, filled with disgust.  Joseph came alongside the kneeling creature and poked him hard in the side of his temple with the business end of his rifle, drawing blood.

“I think the lady might beg to differ, and what about these two?” He motioned toward their precious daughters. “They’re bearing scars that may never heal! Now shut your yap or I’ll shut it for you!”

“See what I mean!?” Stewart roared. “This deviant’s right to live is forfeit and I’ve been tasked to take it!!”

“Have you …? And who has given you this grievous assignment, your wife …your little girls? Or is it God himself!?”

McKenna knew that few would deny the distraught husband’s entitlement to redeem his wife’s honor. He also realized that the alternative was also exclusively in the troubled man’s hands, the act of mercy.

With great reluctance, Joseph drew the Navy Colt from its holster and handed it to the grimly determined man.

Realizing that Stewart’s vengeful attentions were focused solely on their unfortunate associate, Tucker and his portly partner shifted in the gravelly floor, leaning away from their colleague as he began kicking his feet in an attempt to retreat.

Joseph took to binding Tucker’s arm with his folded bandana as Isaiah leveled the weighty pistol with both hands. In a feeble attempt to intervene, Tucker whispered pleas of justification in McKenna’s ear for the boy, claiming mental deficiency and the like. Joseph was oblivious, instead, calmly giving instruction.

“Mr. Stewart …you’ll first need to pull the hammer back.”

Isaiah complied

His hands began to tremble, so much so that Joseph wondered whether he might fire inadvertently.”Mr. Stewart …Isaiah, look at your wife and children. They’ve seen far more than anyone should have to, are you going to add this to their memory?”

McKenna’s words struck the settler’s fractured soul, wondering whether his motivations were driven solely by his own sense of indignation. He wrestled internally with his thoughts, shaking his head as if to cast out the undesirable, alternating his expression from rage to self-loathing despair.  

The quivering youth winced at each facial display, certain that his death would come with the next grimace. In moments, the spectacle dissipated, leaving Isaiah bearing a countenance of ambivalent resignation.

Stewart took in several deep breaths, calming his nerves. With tears in his eyes, he slowly exhaled then gently pulled the trigger … carefully returning the hammer to the position of safety with his thumb.

McKenna heaved a sigh of relief, as did the others, the flinching monster would live another day and this father of two would not have to bear vengeful blood on his hands.

**********^**********

Stewart’s wife Sarah recovered as best as she could, washing her face and retrieving a new dress from the wagon. She wanted to rip the old one into shreds, tossing the tattered remnants into the river as if to cast it out of her recollection but Joseph insisted that she refrain, preferring to preserve it as evidence in the rogues’ trial.

“Isaiah, you’ll have to help me bring these three to town to levy charges, but the women can move on to my cabin until we return.”

Sarah nodded in agreement, cupping her husband’s face in her hands with a tearful kiss. The girls hugged their Papa by the waist then joined their mother at the buckboard and were off.

Having sent the women on their way, the men rejoined the disreputable trio, preparing their horses for the wearisome ride back to La Junta.

Jesse Browning, the blond violator, gave little resistance, apparently still ruminating over his near death experience. Tucker, on the other hand, took a more diplomatic approach, offering gushing apologies absent of discernible sincerity, peppered with promises of copious financial compensation. Farley Chapman, the hefty “jailer”, maintained his silence with wide-eyed obsession, anxiously preoccupied with his newfound circumstance of captivity. 

Joseph strung their horses’ leaders together at the bridles to insure that none of them could break from the train individually, with the head charger tied to Joseph’s saddle horn.  Bound behind their backs, the three were incapable of disengaging the leaders and powerless to resist McKenna’s guidance out of the valley and on to La Junta.

**********^**********

Captain Ferguson gladly received Tucker and his cadre of criminals in the post brig, sequestering them in the lap of gray bar luxury. Their collection of goods stored by the depot were dutifully catalogued and secured in the impound livery behind the barracks for safe keeping while they awaited trial.

“Mr. Stewart” the Captain said. “First, I’d like to extend my deepest sympathies for what you and your family have endured. I promise you that we will do our utmost to bring these men to justice.”

Isaiah nodded.

“But I must tell you that I cannot guarantee that it will be to your satisfaction. The most we can expect, given yours and Mr. McKenna’s testimonies, are charges of assault, possibly malicious detainment. The sentence for such infractions likely will not exceed six months, perhaps eight at most.”

Stewart groaned. He removed his hat, slapping it against his thigh, running his fingers through his hair. “And then they’ll be back at their table, prowling for the next victim!?”

Ferguson sighed, “Not if I can help it sir, but yes … they’ll be free.”

Isaiah and Joseph shared a glance; both wondering at the wisdom of their merciful generosity. Thanking the good captain, the pair mounted up for the long ride “home.”

Isaiah and company would have to remain in the region until the circuit judge arrived at the outpost to litigate Tucker’s men, just under two weeks from that day. Joseph graciously offered his humble homestead to the young family until their roles in this tragic drama were ultimately fulfilled.

To Be Continued…

Highwaymen 1

Joseph McKenna drove the ambling wagon listlessly along the trail; led by five other rigs, laden with hopes and provision for a new beginning. The guides kept a watchful eye on the despondent man but gave him distance out of respect for his recent loss.

Twenty miles separated the small wagon train from the latest of tragedies that had afflicted the former family man. His young son, the last promise for future generations of McKenna, had died of the same fever that devastated his wife and daughter the previous weeks.

Having emerged unscathed, his fellow travelers concluded that Joseph neither suffered from the malady nor was a carrier. The only thing separating him from the mobile community was his depth of despair and their own desire to retain optimism for the journey ahead. They were supportive to be sure, but none of the others had tasted such overwhelming sorrow and few could console him without understanding.

Cresting a rise in the great undulating prairie, the trail boss sent runners to announce that La Junta was now within sight. Cheers and hoots rang out as each wagon was alerted though Joseph’s response was little more than a nod and a painfully weak smile.

Essentially nothing more than a rickety collection of white-washed shacks, La Junta was a town established for the express purpose of servicing the needs of rail yard workers, buffalo hunters and the now rare pioneer. Most venturing west these days chose the rail over the road preferring to start out fresh and unencumbered, but those clinging to remnants of their former life were restricted to the well-worn trail and covered wagons. 

The town offered plenty of entertainment if such was your desire, but few homesteaders dared venture into the blatant dens of iniquity for fear of spousal reprisal at the very least.

A small military presence was maintained in the bustling township, primarily billeted to protect rail workers and the dwindling stream of western adventurers. Signing in at headquarters was the first stop for the trail weary travelers, then on to hot baths and shopping for essentials.

Captain Ferguson, a gregarious man, tall in stature and grateful for the distraction, greeted the sojourners individually. Having heard the report from the trail boss, he offered his condolences to the grieving McKenna.

“I’m terribly sorry to hear of your loss Mr. McKenna, if there’s anything we can do to assist you, please don’t hesitate to stop by.”

“Thank you Captain, you’re very kind. I’m afraid that at this point, I’m not sure where I’m going, what I’m going to do nor why. We …“ he choked. “We were heading to Denver to start a new life, but now …”

The captain shook his head, placing a sympathetic hand on Joseph’s shoulder. “Well sir, the decision is yours to make but if you decide to return back east, there are plenty of local traders ‘round the depot to purchase your goods and give you passage on the next train if you’re so inclined.”

“Again, thank you … I’m much obliged.”

McKenna turned toward his rig, tipping the brim of his hat as Ferguson called out one last bit of advice. “Mr. McKenna … best mind your purse around that lot” he said. “And steer clear of the tracks come nightfall.”

With a nod, Joseph lightly cracked the reigns and was off. Having registered at the office, his attentions were now drawn to a hot meal and a well deserved rest for his team.

The Draper, a local establishment and one of the town’s few permanent structures, specialized in accommodations for the likes of McKenna and his fellow settlers. The rooms were clean but Spartan, and the food, abundantly befitting a high plains appetite. Potatoes and eggs with a side of ramps surrounded an enormously thick steak of Buffalo meat. A small bowl of melon rounded off the bounteous meal, washed down with the western staple of hot coffee.

With the horses in the livery and a room secured, McKenna ventured down to the shanty town erected along the tracks flanking the depot, just south of the banks of the Arkansas. The sights and sounds heard left little doubt as to the inspiration of the good captain’s warning, but Joseph, veteran of the War of Southern Rebellion back east, walked with little fear as he searched for dealers in the goods of unfulfilled dreams.

The bittersweet odor of burning kerosene merging with the scent of mysterious roasting meat permeated the air, assaulting his senses. Drummers of sundry novelties called out ceaselessly at his passing, hoping to entice him into frivolous purchase of useless trinkets. Lethargic women in garish apparel posed unenthusiastically outside of tents from which the noise emanating testified that the clientele were far more enthusiastic than those providing service.

Adjacent to the languid House of Joy, a near-toothless transient hawked his wares of moccasins, deerskin leggings and beaded vests. “For the discerning customer such as yourself …” the raspy voice whispered. “A special treat … genuine Comanche scalps!” He proudly raised the matted black horrors in his clenched fist. Joseph winced.

With his Winchester shouldered, he quickly moved on, soliciting passersby that they might point him toward likely traders of household articles.

**********^**********

Even as he approached their weathered table, the placid traveler felt a sense of unease. Josiah Tucker was the apparent leader of the trio with the other two wisely kept occupied in the background. Their front-man was dressed in reasonably serviceable attire but the pair behind were unabashedly filthy and generally unkempt.

It wasn’t their absence of hygiene or sense of propriety that troubled him most; he had yet to wash more than his own face and hands; but it was their general temperament that seemed amiss. All traders display a certain hunger when eying a potential customer but few bother to intentionally hide their eagerness.

Tucker was a merchant in goods, and in this environment, everything was up for barter; weapons, wagons, tools, even the clothes off a man’s back if such was his collateral. Most made no bones about visually appraising another’s assets but these three would suddenly turn away, as if caught red-handed, in the act of plotting.  

His burly associate struggled to avert his gaze from the Winchester while the younger became transfixed by McKenna’s fine boots, a surprise gift from his wife upon departing St. Louis. The dirty blond wall-eyed miscreant sported a tattered buckskin suit, ragged cavalry boots and a mouthful of frightening yellow teeth yet carried a surprisingly well-polished hunting knife.  

Noticing Joseph’s discomfort, Tucker turned to bark out orders, commanding the pair to store dry goods in their sloppily painted wagon parked behind.

Joseph half-heartedly expressed his query, already certain he’d refuse whatever they offered.

Tucker folded his arms, leaning back with belly outstretched. “Depends on what ya got mister! Why don’t you roll your rig down here and we’ll give ‘er a look-see?”

McKenna glanced at each man, individually assessing their reaction. Only Tucker maintained eye contact, and that, Joseph surmised, seemed to require great effort on his part.

“Let me sleep on it Mr. Tucker, I’ve come this far, I’m not so sure that turning back’s the answer.”

“Suit yer self” he said. “Which way’ll you be headin’ if ya don’t mind my askin’?”

“Denver” he replied. “Wagon train pulls out first thing in the morning.”

Tucker shrugged, seeming strangely disappointed.

Joseph tipped his hat and headed back toward the Draper. As he climbed the rise, he could feel six ravenous eyes trailing him, still hungry for his store-bought rifle and well kept footwear.  

Dusk settled as the waning sun signaled the arrival of blissfully cooler desert night air. Joseph leaned against the rail of the shallow balcony outside his street side window, incredulous of the great departure that his path in life had taken. He shook his head as occasional tumbleweeds rolled along the dusty avenue, unimpeded by obstruction.

He and his young family had left the smoking stacks of Pittsburgh in the hopes of a new beginning out west. The burgeoning prosperity of mining and industry had seized the high plains to the north and Denver was rapidly becoming a land of unbridled opportunity for a mechanical craftsman such as Joseph McKenna.

It was for this reason that they chose the trail as a means of travel since Joseph’s tools were one of a kind, handmade and unavailable from mercantile shops. Now alone, he lamented that decision, wishing he’d chosen to start again with stock implements straight off the rack.

As he sullenly weighed his irreversible decisions, the passing breeze carried music from a nearby tavern. He recognized the tune, something heard while traveling the great Missouri expanse.

A family of Irish had joined the train, up from the Mississippi, with the intent of raising cattle along the richer pastures of the Rockies’ front range. The father played fiddle while the daughter sang sweetly, a melody Joseph recalled as “What child is this?” though their lyrics sounded foreign and unrecognizable.  

He began to muse on that day, two weeks out of St. Louis when he and his lovely wife spun in the dust before the campfire, engaged in an impromptu waltz to the great delight of all that witnessed. Joseph wept.

He knew not what the future held nor whether time would heal his wounds of the heart, but forward he would go and not behind. Tomorrow he’d join his fellow travelers in the hopes that this new land might offer the solace of recovery to his injured soul.

**********^**********

With full bellies and renewed vigor, the train was assembled along the back alley of the Draper. The boss and his men did a quick accounting then briefed the drivers on their expectation of progress for the day. McKenna gave them the high sign that he too would proceed and at that, the train was off.

They rose up to the ridge beyond the river valley and started west with the intention of crossing the rocky ford ten miles out then continuing their course on the north side.

Once clearing the valley, the enormity of this territory became readily apparent as the land unfurled in all directions. To the east lay nothing but featureless wasteland, punctuated only by the muddy river’s narrow strip of green to each side. The western panorama was much the same with the exception of the ominous facade of the Rockies’ front range emerging from the horizon.

McKenna gazed at Zebulon Pike’s namesake, the milestone peak of the new west, with Denver’s promise just a week’s drive to the north. Pulling back on the reigns, he halted his rig and carefully scanned the rest of the vista before him.

So many a night they’d anticipated this moment but now Joseph was fated to experience it alone. Pike’s Peak was impressive in its stature and symbolism, a beacon to weary travelers, but the southern end offered two massive spires, towering in ominous grandeur, set in the midst of a sprawling desolation.

Trail guide Obadiah Reems pulled up beside the stalled wagon to see if Joseph had encountered a problem.

“Everything alright Mr. McKenna?”

“Sorry … yes, I’m fine. Mr. Reems, I believe I’ve decided to part company, doesn’t the Old Santa Fe go south …toward those mountains?”

Reems scratched his head. “True enough sir, but I wouldn’t recommend it. Springs are hard to come by and you’d be hard pressed to encounter a soul till you hit the range. ‘Sides, word around town has it that Injuns been acting up in the badlands.”

By this time, the trail boss had doubled back to see what was the hold-up. “Breakdown already …?”

“No sir” Reems replied. “Mr. McKenna’s considering leaving us, wants to head down the Santa Fe.”

“Hmm, that’s rough trade for any man these days. You sure about this Joseph?”

McKenna nodded, “We came out here with expectations and none of them seem to be coming to pass. I think for now, I’m gonna do the unexpected, does that make any sense?”

The boss nodded with a sigh, tilting his head. “Well sir, given what you’ve been through, I’d have to say yes.” He turned to Obadiah. “Did you mention the springs?”

“I did …”

“Fair enough, though if you want my advice, I’d head south to the Purgatoire so you can stay watered and then cut west to Trinidad.”

After receiving a hastily drawn map and several helpful pointers, McKenna held out his hand. “Good advice William, I shall take it gladly. It’s been a pleasure gentlemen.” He gratefully shook the men’s hands and turned his rig to the south.

The high plains were a land of dramatic contrast; parting from the river valley immediately plunged Joseph and his team into the arid desert terrain. Each rise was met with another disappointment as rocky sand gave way to more of the same.

Green meant life and life required water, but the pale yellow land offered little of either. Finally, hope sprang up in the form of Pinon dotted mesas just an hour’s drive ahead. This was the first marker for the fabled Purgatoire or Purgatory River.

The waitress at the Draper had recounted the origins of the foreboding moniker to Joseph the evening before. It seemed that the Purgatory got its name from an incident that occurred during the Spanish occupation of the region.

A company of conquistadors had ventured into the valley in search of gold but disbanded for reasons unknown. Now isolated from their strength in numbers, the stragglers set out on their own paths, only to be killed off by bands of local Indians. Having no priest to administer last rites, the assumption was that the soldiers’ souls were now trapped in purgatory, destined to perpetually exist without their eternal rest.

Though Joseph saw no need for denominational ritual to maintain his redemption, he certainly understood the sentiment. McKenna sought strength to endure the earthly, his heavenly condition, he determined, was not for him to decide.

Upon arriving in the valley, he was gratified to see that the river offered lush vegetation and an abundance of wildlife, a far cry from the hellish reputation that its name would suggest.

He decided to set up camp for the night near the banks on a stable plateau. The horses could graze while he rested, giving him plenty of opportunity to reflect on his fateful decision. There was an abundance of wood for the fire; a deterrent for four-legged foes but an open invite for those bearing but two. Choosing watchfulness over fear, he gathered the sun-baked timber and tended the flames without reservation.

He sipped his cup of over brewed coffee as the evening breeze began to pick up, fanning the fire and showering him with the flotsam of decayed grass and cactus pollen.

Occasional gusts stirred up something quite surprising for such a remote location, bits of tattered paper and remnants of cloth. Rolling on edge across the flattened camp site, a perfectly square card tumbled along, ultimately plastering itself against the side of the wagon. Intrigued, McKenna got up from his comfortable spot to examine the curiosity.

It was a photograph, a sepia colored picture of a small family of pioneers! The husband stood astride his wife with their young daughter in the center. The parents had placed a hand on each of the girl’s shoulders as she beamed with delight. In the backdrop directly behind the trio was a fully outfitted covered wagon, water barrels hitched to the sides and a Hawken rifle fixed beside the driver’s seat.

Joseph wiped the thin layer of dust away and pressed out the creases, reverence for a hopeful moment captured on film. He knew nothing of the events that lost this treasure to the elements for he could not imagine the family intentionally discarding it. Perhaps a wayward breeze snatched it from the little girl’s grasp, he thought.

Regardless of the circumstance, he’d decided to keep it on the off chance that he may one day encounter the family and return this reminder of their great adventure west and how far they’ve come.

The wind finally subsided by nightfall, the flapping canvas of the wagon cover falling mercifully silent at last. With a final check on the horses, McKenna retired for the evening.

Abruptly awakened from a deep slumber, Joseph rose from his bedroll with a start, grabbing his rifle as he leapt to his feet. A number of coyotes were yapping with great ferocity, just beyond his campsite. Even though his fire had dwindled to barely a flicker, the diminished light still managed to illuminate several pairs of amber-green eyes, a menacing sight in this isolated darkness.

McKenna stoked the fire as an added precaution but doubted that they had any concern for his doings. They appeared to have a preoccupation with interests beyond the bush in a ravine on the other side of the flat. Confident that both he and the horses were safe, he returned to his bunk.

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The following morning, with camp broken, Joseph steered his rig toward a gradual rise that terminated on the level grade of a low mesa. He wanted to investigate a location he’d spotted in the distance while approaching the valley the day before.

The construction of men stood out with stark prominence in the midst of this wilderness and McKenna was certain that he’d seen an old homestead just beyond the rise.  With a final heave, the team crested the mesa, revealing their destination a few hundred yards to the west.

Even before pulling up to the ramshackle cabin, Joseph could see plainly that the place had long been abandoned. A collection of tumbleweeds, snared by the porch posts, blocked the open doorway while the window shutters flapped in the breeze. A clear path led from the rear of the building to a dilapidated outhouse just beyond the original pioneer dwelling, a crumbling sod hut. There was a barn of sorts, likely the most recent addition, sturdy in construction but apparently devoid of the necessity for level and plumb.  

Joseph dismounted the wagon to survey the landscape, curious as to why none remained. The spread was quite a sight to behold, acres of flat manageable earth, perfect for cultivation and livestock. A creek branch from an adjacent hillside trailed through the center and the winds were subdued by rows of Pinon trees along the ridges.

Failure seemed impossible with such an abundance of resource but the humble graveyard in the distance, fully occupied, gave mute testimony to the contrary. Death and life, as Joseph had become painfully aware, cared little for the aspirations of men.

Clearing the porch obstruction, McKenna entered the cabin. A quick glance revealed that personal items were conspicuously absent, a sure sign that this dream had faded into obscurity rather than fallen prey to sudden catastrophe.

In an instant, Joseph knew what he must do. With no established plan urging his compliance, he was free to choose and for the time being, this would be his choice.

The irony of his decision was not lost on the wayfaring man. Unlike his ill-fated Spanish predecessors, Joseph McKenna chose to dwell in Purgatory!