Short Stories & Tall Tales
Odyssey of a Saddle
By Tom Sheehan
1. Jim Chaliver
The single shot, from lower down the valley, rang out in the late afternoon stillness when one would think there was no war. Jim Chaliver, hidden in a thicket, saw the rider fall out of the saddle even as the horse rolled into a hole and came down on both front legs. He cringed, swearing he could hear bones snap at the impact. The fallen rider did not move, but for long, long minutes the horse made the sad and almost endless noise of dying. The uniform of the rider he had not determined.
In civilian clothes, heading west, Jim Chaliver had not picked a side in the Blue and Gray struggle. But conscription faced him if he was found, by either side. He was in Missouri territory and had his eyes on the high northwest country, so that kept him for the time being hidden with his bareback horse. On quick surmise he thought if he could get the saddle off the fallen horse, it would be a boon to travel. But only solid darkness could grant him enough secrecy for the task.
A long trail was behind him, with a number of near escapes from troops of both sides. Hunger tantrums were working all sides of his guts and he had found a root to chew on, a wet green-stemmed plant to suck foul tasting moisture from. The thicket had housed him and the horse for the better part of the afternoon, his canteen dry from keeping his horse’s tongue moist. Chaliver thanked his lucky stars a few times for the young woman who had given him the horse from the back of her barn for the merest of hellos on an otherwise dark day. She had not even told him her name. He suspected there was good reason for that stillness.
Well after midnight, the skies as black as Hades had to be on the best of days, he slipped from the dense thicket and walked slowly and quietly to death’s appointment for the other rider and horse. Both creatures were completely still, spent in the war, the Johnny Reb on his back, a canteen at his side, the horse in a trench with the saddle in easy reach, including the loosened girth barely touching the rim of the trench. In the awful silence and darkness, Chaliver removed the saddle and mounted it on his own horse, and took only the soldier’s canteen. He did not take his weapon, or his gear other than the canteen, or the very official looking messenger’s carrying case still looped over one shoulder. Jim Chaliver wanted no tactical part of the war other than personal survival; the west called on him continually, the dream constant.
Morning found him more than a dozen miles away, in the early light filling his new canteen and his old one from a small stream. That’s when he first noticed the initials on the saddle. With a deliberate hand, some keen or near artist had burned the initials JC into the pommel of the saddle in a bold script. The initials looked like they’d last forever.
Later in the day, roast rabbit in his gut, sweet water in his canteens, finding the saddle most comfortable, he remarked to himself that he had been blessed in the midst of war with a saddle carrying his own initials. Fate, of one sort or another, was working his side of the table.
2. John Jackboy Carson
High in the rugged pass of a mountain break, dawn streaking the skies above him and at the head of the mountain peak as if it was a fire of a pleasant arsonist, John Jackboy Carson crawled out of a single blanket’s wrap, his night still lingering with terror when the bear had torn into his small camp, swiped huge rents in his horse’s hide and driven him off down the length of the pass, the whole canyon full of the terror of each animal’s rage and pain.
Carson’s eyes rested on the dead bear only a few feet from his sleeping place under a portion of rock face, the hole from the Hawkins’ single shot dead-on in the bear’s skull. It was his second encounter with the monsters of the mountain, though he would admit they had pretty well stayed away from him as much as he had stayed away from them, or tried to.
Counting out his pelts, his small supply of grub, his ammo belted and pocketed, he knew he had to decided what to carry with him and what to leave, under some kind of cover if he could arrange it. The place where he had slept seemed the best, and the handiest, and there were plenty of rocks and boulders to erect a protective seal against animals. Any man, alive in these parts, eking out an existence in these parts, possibly someone he had known along the long trail, was welcome to his leavings if they ever came across them.
His back pack loaded with a tolerable load, weapon in hand, he started back toward Glory Hill settlement. Partially, with some evasion, he had measured the walking days ahead; he had a spell of it coming.
Three days later, in a small canyon, he heard a horse snicker, then saw him saddled but riderless looking over his head at a mountain lion atop a mount and about to spring. The Hawkins, in a swift maneuver, found the animal in flight. The horse bolted to the far end of the canyon and disappeared from sight. Jackboy, letting down his pack, set out after the horse. In a small crevice, at one side of the canyon, he found the horse, still frightened from the near encounter. Jackboy spilled a bit of water into his hat and the horse, most likely dried out, snickered and slowly approached him. The animal, a roan stallion about 15 hands high and a white sock on one foreleg, sipped from the hat.
Jackboy coddled the horse, petted him, talked in a kind whisper, and let him drink more. He mounted the animal with ease and went back to get his gear.
At Glory Hill telling others about his find, his good fortune when his own horse was ripped and torn by a bear and most likely was now dead, he said, “And the strange part of the whole thing is that my initials, JC, are on the saddle, branded there just like it was meant for me from the beginning. Can’t knock that kind of luck. I won’t feed this one to the bears, though. Maybe he’ll stake me to a good card game.”
3. Jerry Claymore
In the cloud of dust behind the stagecoach running to Dogwood on the river, shotgun rider Jerry Claymore saw the two horsemen trying to catch up to his coach. To his experienced eye, they looked none too friendly. They had come out of a small clutch of trees off to one side of the road, and riding fast.
“Better heat ‘em up, Dutch, “he said to the driver, Dutch Emerson, his stage pard for a good dozen trips down this road. “Those two gents chasing us have got desperate all over them. I was you, I’d crack that whip. I ain’t in any fighting mood.”
“You think they got no good in mind, Jerry? Well, if they want a ride they can catch us in town.” He lashed out with his whip and all the horses ears came up and the dust rose higher. Each of the stage hands were aware of the concern beginning to emerge from their six passengers, five older men and a young lady keen on the eyes.
With much of their attention being spread out behind them, neither of the stage men saw the fallen tree at a harsh turn in the road. Dutch Emerson had to suddenly haul back on the reins as the road narrowed between a few huge rocks. They were as cooked as a goose when three more men wearing masks trained their rifles on them. Jerry Claymore, fully aware that they were outgunned and outmanned, that the safety of the passengers had risen quickly to become their first concern, threw down his weapon. Dutch Emerson followed suit.
The leader of the gang soon emerged, as he spoke out ahead of others, “We mean you no harm, any of you. Just throw down the cash box you’re carrying up there and we’ll move the tree so’s you can get to town before dark, the wind’s going to kick up tonight. Tell the young lady she has no worries about us.
All available information sprung at Jerry Claymore: the robbers had at least seen the parties getting on board, the young lady in particular; that the cash box contained a decent some of money going to the new bank; that the leader was well-spoken, alert, had planned the hold up well, wore clean clothes, and rode a horse with JC burned into the saddle. The shot gun rider had been through three robberies in his time, carried one scar from a rifle butt hit on the side of his head, and had tried to remember every detail that had concern and interest to lawmen and stage owners.
The attractive young lady said to the coachmen, “I personally want to thank you for not starting a shooting war over a few thousand dollars.” That sat curious on Claymore’s mind as he noticed again how calm she was how pretty she was, how she had not creamed or fallen to pieces like some newcomers to stage riding would do.
On his next ride back into town on the return trip of the stage, he saw the young lady enter a small house on the outskirts of town, and there, tied to a rail, was the horse carrying the initialed saddle. The sheriff made quick work of the group and said to Jerry Claymore, “Jerry, seeing as the saddle has your initials on it, and it sits well on that horse, the court has decided that you get horse and saddle as your reward. You now own them. He gave him a proper bill of sale. $50 also came from the stage owners.
A week later, extraordinary luck at the card table, his fortunes having taken a high road to improvements, he started out of town on his own, headed for points further west. The morning was cool, the sun bright as it rose from the prairie behind him, so he took his good fortune west astride the JC saddle. His eyes often sought the initials. They warmed him thoroughly, brought a smile to his face.
He knew something lingered with the saddle; a past, a future, a story.
When Jerry went broke at a card table in a small town in the foothills of the Rockies, he sold his horse and saddle to a man who approached him after the game. A big man with six guns on his belt, a gray Stetson sitting high over his eyes, the man said, “I’ll give you a fair price for the horse and saddle. I want them for my only son, who’s learning to ride pretty good. I got to give him some rein on his choice of things, getting him prepared for the day coming when he wants to spread his wings. He’s always talked about the Pacific Ocean. That’s a piece yet for any of us. Your horse seems to be a damned good animal. It’d be no gamble for me, or for him.”
“It’s a deal,” Jerry Claymore said, then asked, “What’s your son’s name?”
“Jode Clanton,” the big man said.
Jerry Claymore, only involved in a small piece of the odyssey of the marked saddle, smiled, hoping the Good Lord, with his hands everywhere, touching everything, would take care of the man’s son. He shook his hand on the deal and handed over the reins, his eye fast on the initials still burned into the pommel.
4. Jode Clanton… still on this side of the Rockies, waiting for history to happen.
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