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.

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

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!