Welcome To The Bullpen
Westward The Mountains
Tim Carpenter
I topped out on the rise about mid-morning and reined in my horse. The big strawberry roan was grateful for the break in the action, and started nibbling at the sparse grass growing helter skelter between the rocks. I took the time to roll a cigarette and then surveyed the seemingly endless panorama before me. It was a tortured and lonely land, worn by the wind and scorched by the sun. Spires of red and yellow sandstone reached high into the azure sky, pointing forlornly toward the only escape from the searing heat and the windblown sand.
Far away, out across a labyrinth of canyons, I could just make out my goal; the far, blue mountains with their snow-capped peaks and their promise of cool, swift running streams. It was to these mountains I was headed, hoping to find gold and a new start.
It hadn’t been very long since I was discharged from the army, and my whole world was changing. I was a lonely, middle-aged man, with nothing to show but a horse and a gun, and maybe a few scars here and there. I wanted to find a place to settle down and raise a family, but what gal would want to marry a poor man like me with no money and no prospects?
My army life had not been very conducive to finding a wife or raising a family, and I was glad to be free of it. It wasn’t easy making a change at this stage of my life, but my mind was made up. Now I was free to do whatever I wanted, but along with my newfound freedom came responsibility as well. Now it was up to me to feed and clothe myself, to acquire a roof over my head, and to provide for myself as best I could. The army would no longer be there to issue to me what it wanted me to have. I was my own person now, not a name and rank on some roster sitting in the major’s “in” basket. For better or worse, it was all up to me now.
The cigarette tasted good, although its dry and pungent aroma seemed somehow out of place in this wonderland of sand and rock. Here, there were not a lot of combustible materials, nothing to burn except an occasional gnarled cedar, twisted and dried by the harsh summer wind.
Below me on the coarse, windswept sandstone, the trail twisted and turned down into a labyrinth of enormous spires and stone walled canyons, and I was anxious to start my journey across this maze of ancient monoliths. The canyons were deep, winding, and desolate. Gazing around in awe and wonder, I felt as if I were the first human being in the world to view this magnificent display, but I knew that was not so. I had seen plenty of evidence of those who came before, the ancient ones whose voices still whispered with each gentle breeze, imparting knowledge and wisdom to those who would take the time to listen.
Crushing out the stub of the cigarette, I pulled the plug out of my canteen and drank a little water, swishing it around in my mouth before swallowing. It was warm and brackish, but it was refreshing nonetheless. In this desert country, water was more precious than gold, and many a person had died of thirst, not realizing that they were literally within a few feet of water.
Touching the spurs to my horse, I turned the roan down the trail, moving slowly and deliberately down into the red sandstone void before me. It wasn’t long before the shadows of huge walls engulfed me, blocking out the harsh rays of the sun and giving me a much-needed respite from the intense heat. Here and there, lizards scurried across the trail, pausing momentarily in the hot sun, their little sides puffing in and out with each breath.
It was surprisingly cool in the shade, the sweat on my body chilling me as it evaporated quickly. I rode silently; ever downward to whatever was waiting for me at the bottom. Turning a corner in the trail, I was greeted by a handprint on the wall ahead of me. It was a rusty red color and was positioned a little higher than my head. Was it a warning sign? I did not know. I could tell that it was very old, and perhaps the creator was just making some sort of artistic statement, its true meaning or purpose obscured forever by the passage of time.
Moving on, I slowly made my way to the bottom, ending up in a dry streambed that meandered back and forth between the high walls of the canyon. I followed the streambed for several miles until I came to a place where several canyons intersected each other. The trail turned southwest down a different canyon, and I followed it.
This canyon looked almost the same as the other canyon I had come in on, but I was starting to see some small willow trees sticking up out of the sand. Moving slowly around a bend in the canyon, I eventually came to a place where several large cottonwood trees rose majestically out of the sandy soil, shading a nice park-like setting over against the canyon wall.
Walking my horse into the shade of the cottonwood trees, I was rewarded with a glimpse of a small pool of water, fed by a short waterfall originating from a spring back in a large crack in the sandstone wall of the canyon. The water from the pool ran down a small stream along the wall until it disappeared beneath the sand once again.
Stripping the saddle from the roan, I led him over to the pond and let him drink his fill, then picketed him on a small patch of grass under the cottonwoods. Gathering some dry wood together for a hatful of fire, I soon had coffee boiling in the pot and bacon frying in the pan.
After scouting around a little, I settled down for the night and thought about the future. Tomorrow would bring more canyons, more hot sun, and lonely miles of solitary travel. I figure I would be out of this canyon country in two days at the most, and then the country should open up some. I hoped I was right.
I had been told that there was gold to be found in the far mountains, and I wanted to try my luck. I had never had much money, and I was hoping to change that. If I struck it rich, then I would go see the sights in San Francisco or some other big town and have a grand old time. Otherwise, I would just do what I could to survive until I found a way to make a living, be it farming, ranching, mining, or whatever.
Two days later, after leaving the canyon country, I crossed the trail of some unshod ponies, and I quickly took cover behind a wall of brush while I contemplated what to do. Unshod ponies meant Indians were somewhere nearby, and these tracks were only hours old. This was Ute country, and they were not on good terms with white folks nowadays, so I was somewhat concerned.
After watching and listening for a little while, I decided to move on, careful of where I rode, not wanting to leave any more sign than I had to. It appeared to be a small group of Indians, possibly a scouting or hunting party, but one Indian was deadly in this country, and I had counted the tracks of six horses. They had been heading south, so I kept going west. Maybe, just maybe with a little luck, I could avoid any kind of confrontation. I sure hoped so.
Riding up a small, low ridge, just enough to poke my head over without sky-lining myself, I looked out across a wide, flat plain, lined with trees and small hills and opening out onto a broader expanse that stretched away to the mountains. My heart almost stopped when I saw the plume of smoke.
The smoke appeared to be coming from a campfire next to a wagon. I saw a couple of pairs of mules and somebody moving around in the brush near the wagon. Well, I tell you I was dumbfounded as to what to do next. I was almost certain that if I had spied the column of smoke, the Indians back yonder had seen it too, and those folks over at the wagon would be in big trouble soon. I decided to dismount and head for some thick brush where I could lay low for awhile and observe the wagon. It never paid to be too hasty when it came to dealing with Indians, and I planned on keeping my scalp from adorning the lodge pole of some young buck’s wickieup.
Taking out my army issue binoculars, I glassed the entire area, starting at the far horizon on my left, and moving closer and to the right until I had covered just about all of the country out yonder. There were some areas that were blocked from my view by one or two tree lines and some of the low hills, but so far I had seen nothing moving except the folks around the wagon.
I was almost certain that there were only two people near the wagon, but still hadn’t got a good look at either one of them. What they were doing way out here all by themselves was a mystery to me. Just the fact that they had made it this far without losing their hair was a remarkable feat in itself.
An hour later I got my first good look at the folks down by the wagon, and my heart fell. The first person I saw was a young boy about thirteen or fourteen years of age, and he had an old rifle of some kind in the crook of his arm. He walked over to the mules and led them two at a time onto new grass, picketing them there and walking out away from the camp to stare at the far mountains yonder.
A moment later a woman walked from behind the wagon and called to the young boy, probably telling him to come to supper. The sun was on its way down by this time, but there were still a couple of hours of daylight left.
I smoked another cigarette as I watched and waited. I had the feeling that the Indians were out there ready to strike, and I didn’t want to get caught out in the open between the wagon and the Indians if they chose to strike at that moment.
I still couldn’t figure out what the woman and the boy were doing out here all alone. Didn’t they know they were in danger? I tried not to think about the woman’s beautiful blonde hair hanging from some brave’s belt.
The young boy walked out to the mules and started back to the wagon with both teams. At that moment, the Indians came rushing out of the trees in two groups of three warriors each. They were whooping and hollering to beat the band, and the young boy started to run with the mules in tow.
Stepping into the leather, I shucked my pistol and quickly checked the loads and spun the cylinder. Putting the pistol back in the holster, I pulled my Winchester out of the scabbard and levered a shell into the chamber. Keeping the wagon lined up between the Indians and me, I rode swiftly through the brush and trees, keeping behind cover as much as possible. I hoped that the woman and the young boy had made it to cover.
The Indians were after the mules I was sure, and the woman and young boy would just be entertainment for them after they had the mules. The Indians were firing rifles at the wagon and I heard the low boom of a heavy caliber rifle from inside the wagon, and saw one Indian go down. Whoever was shooting from the wagon knew what they were doing.
When the first Indian came around the wagon to where I could get a good shot at him, I let go with my Winchester, levering three quick shots and hitting one Indian. That meant there were four Indians left out of the six, and I was hopeful that I would possibly get out of this alive. Counting the boy, there were three of us against four Indians and the odds were beginning to even up a little.
I was almost to the wagon now, and I started yelling at the woman, letting her know that I was out here and hoping she wouldn’t shoot me by mistake. I took aim at another Indian, riding low on his pony, and squeezed off another shot. I didn’t think I killed him, but it surely burned him a little, enough to make him back off and run the other way at least. That left three Indians and at least two of us shooting at them. The heavy boom of the rifle in the wagon sounded again and again, and I could only see two Indians still trying to get at the mules. That meant the marksman in the wagon had put another Indian out of commission.
Riding past the wagon, I rode right at the two remaining Indians, who turned to fight, and swinging my rifle up, knocked one from the back of his pony. The other Indian jumped at me from the back of his pony and we both fell to the ground in a heap. He was quick getting to his feet, but so was I and we were suddenly locked together in a desperate struggle for survival. He had come up with a knife and all I could do was try to keep him from putting any holes in my hide with it.
I suddenly let go of him with my right hand and brought a stiff uppercut to his solar plexus, momentarily stunning him as he gasped for breath. That was all the space I needed, and I fetched him a clout on the side of the head that sent him reeling. Before I could draw my pistol and shoot, that big rifle in the wagon boomed and I could feel and hear the bullet speed past me, striking the Indian in the chest and knocking him head over heels into the dirt.
As quickly as it had begun, it was over and I was surprised to find that we had beaten the Indians off without taking casualties. Turning around, I saw the boy looking out at me with that rifle in his hands, his eyes as big as dinner plates.
“Howdy, son,” I said, grinning a little. “That was some nice shooting you did there.”
“Where did you come from, Mister?” he asked as he started to climb down from the wagon. The woman started to climb down as well and when they were both on the ground, she stood tall behind him, her hands on his shoulders.
“I just happened along, son,” I replied, looking at the woman. She had the purtiest green eyes I had ever seen. She was a beautiful woman, about thirty-five years old if I was any judge, and filled out in all of the right places. I was shore gonna have some sleepless nights ahead of me on account of her, I could see that.
“We’re awful thankful that you happened along when you did, Mister…,” the woman said, her relief evident in her voice.
“Bannister, Ma’am. Matt Bannister,” I replied extending my hand. The beautiful woman shook my hand and a thrill went up my spine. Her hands were soft and lovely, like a woman’s hands should be. She smiled and the light in her eyes was a sight to behold.
“Pleased to meet you, Mister Bannister,” she said. “This is my son Jeremiah, and I am Katy Winslow.”
“A pleasure Ma’am,” I said, feeling my face grow warm. For some reason I was suddenly embarrassed about my rough hands, my shabby clothing, and the fact that I hadn’t shaved for a week or two.
“If you don’t mind my askin’ Ma’am, what are you two doin’ way out here all by yourselves?” I asked, a little bit of concern and a lot of curiosity in my voice.
“We’re heading for the western lands, close to the mountains hopefully, sir,” she replied firmly. “My husband died of scarlet fever last year, and my son and I couldn’t afford the mortgage on the farm, so we decided to try our luck out west.”
“Ma’am,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm, “You folks come mighty close to cashin’ in yore chips out here today. Didn’t anyone tell you that it’s dangerous traveling alone out here?”
“Yes, Mister Bannister, they did. They all tried to tell me that I had no business taking my boy into the wilderness. They also told me that I was a woman and that I couldn’t possibly make it on my own. They told me all kinds of things to discourage me from coming west. I aim to prove them all wrong, Mister Bannister. Does that answer your question?”
She was smiling as she said it, and doggone me if I didn’t jump over onto her side of the argument right then and there.
“Ma’am, if you’ll permit me, I’ll hitch up your mules for you and ride along with you for a spell. If I can help you prove them wrong, I’d be much obliged.”
I winked at Jeremiah, and he smiled back at me and then turned to put the rifle in the wagon. After that, he helped hitch up the mules and we rode quickly out across the flat toward the far, blue mountains.
We got along fine after that, and I got to where I felt real comfortable around Katy and the boy. Her long blonde hair was something to see, shining like gold in the sun as she sat up on the seat of the wagon. Jeremiah looked at me funny a couple of times, especially when I picked a couple of wildflowers and handed them to his ma, but he never said anything unkind.
We made it all the way to the mountains, and built a nice cabin before snowfall. A traveling preacher stopped by shortly after that and stayed with us for a few days. We took advantage of his stay with us and got married. It was a grand time.
We have a nice place now, with the barns and the corrals built, and horses and cattle grazing out on the meadows. Jeremiah has grown into a good young man, and after the town sprung up and folks started moving in, he found a nice young girl to help him pass the time.
It all seems so long ago now, and I thank my lucky stars everyday for Katy. I came west to the mountains to find gold, and I can honestly say that I found it. I dug a lot of gold out of the ground alright, but when the sun shines just right and Katy smiles as she looks over at me as she sews, I see a golden halo of gold, and I know that the long journey west to the mountains was worth it.
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