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  The Lonesome Death of Joe Savage

  Paul Lederer writing as C. J. Sommers

  ONE

  It seemed like there must be a thousand miles of travel ahead of him. He knew there were a thousand behind him. Wyoming was a long, long way from Waco, Texas. Tracy Keyes had started this journey as a trail-hand with the Double M outfit out of Waco. After forty-five days through the heat and dust and stink of the cattle drive he had reached Abilene to find a telegram waiting for him.

  His mother had sent it the week before, not knowing how long he would be on the trail. Her sister, Enora Savage, had learned that her only son, Joe, had been cut down on his ranch in Wyoming, and had begged Tracy to look into matters. Both his mother and Aunt Enora were Eastern ladies and had no real idea of how large the West was, how far Kansas was from Wyoming.

  Tracy considered ignoring the request. It would be easy to say the wire had not reached him. But the last line of the telegram sealed his decision.

  ‘Please, son, do this for me. I know how I would feel if you were lost out in the wilds. Mother.’

  It seemed that he might as well, considering that the other option was to ride back to the Double M and resume his repetitious duties as a ranch-hand. He had been paid, he had a good horse. He had never seen Wyoming, and figured he might as well take a look at it. He tried to rope a few of his friends into riding with him, but they were busy trying to see how fast they could spend their earnings in Abilene. The only one who considered accompanying him was a narrow man named Clive Tillit, who ultimately declined with the advice, ‘Buy yourself a heavy coat, Tracy. I know it’s the middle of summer, but it won’t be when you get there, and Wyoming winters are nothing to be dismissed.’

  Tracy took Tillit’s advice and bought a buffalo coat, which he tied behind his saddle on this ninety-degree day. The dry-goods clerk seemed surprised but pleased with the sale. Outside, the sky was clear, sun-bright. Not wishing to take the chance of being stranded afoot on the plains if something should happen to Thunder, his big sorrel with stockings on his front legs, he purchased a little white mare named Changa to take along. Changa could also be used to carry his supplies. The mild-mannered little horse was one of Double M’s remuda spares and so he was able to purchase it for a very reasonable price.

  Early the following morning while the town lay sleeping and an eerie ground fog blanketed the grassland, Tracy struck out northward. There was a strange sort of pleasure in riding into the unknown with no real objective in mind, equipped for weeks of travel, a man alone on the plains. By mid-morning the fog had cleared away, defeated by the risen sun.

  Tracy rode on, the flat prairie stretching out endlessly. He passed three of four tiny settlements, but stayed clear of them. He was in need of nothing. He saw a sod-buster already at work in his fields, guiding his plow behind his mule, and raised a hand. The farmer removed his straw hat and waved back.

  As he rode, Tracy tried to recall what he knew of his cousin, Joe Savage. It was little enough. His Aunt Enora’s only son, only child, Joe would have been about Tracy’s age – twenty-seven, by now. They had not lived near each other, and Tracy could only recall visiting his cousin, playing with him, once. They must have both been around ten years of age then. It was said that they looked alike, but Tracy had no idea if they did or not – he could not remember his cousin’s face. He could only recall that one day when the play had gotten rough and Tracy had been pinned face-up on the ground, his cousin kneeling on him, an upraised rock in his hand, a look of evil intent in his eyes. His mother and Enora had broken up the squabble before anything serious could happen, but Tracy avoided his cousin the rest of that afternoon.

  So was that what had caused Joe’s troubles? Had he remained violent, gone wild once he drifted into the western lands? Not having known Joe Savage as an adult, Tracy could only speculate.

  The weather held hot and dry in the daytime; cool at night. Tracy did not press the horses, but allowed them frequent rests and pauses for water at any source they happened to come across. In two days he had not seen another living human being on the plains. He guessed that he was near to Nebraska now, or more likely northern Colorado, since he could see the massive bulk of the purple Rocky Mountains to the west.

  There was a lot of game to be had if a man was hunting – pronghorn antelope, a few buffalo and mule deer – but Tracy was not in the mood to take the time and trouble of killing, skinning, and butchering animals when he was well-stocked with beans and other essentials.

  The fourth morning he rose from his bed, stretching the kinks out of his back. The morning was cooler than expected, the ground harder. Although he had been happy enough to ride alone after the commotion of the trail drive and the clamor of the town, he was starting to wish for the sight of another human face. He supposed that was human nature.

  It was on the following morning after another chill night on the plains that he spotted the settlement ahead of him, lying next to a nameless river. The road he followed now was well-traveled, wide. There were the signs of many horses having been ridden this way, and some wagon wheel ruts. Wherever he was, it was a well-traveled route that he had intersected. It suited him. He could find a bed or even a haystack to sleep in this night, and something to eat besides his own rough trail cooking.

  As he approached and entered the small, squat town he began to see the name ‘Baker’ on almost every business, so he assumed that was the name of the town. He had never heard of it, but then he knew almost nothing about Wyoming. He had heard of Cheyenne and Laramie, but that was the extent of his knowledge of the territory.

  Tracy swung down from his sorrel in front of the Baker Stable, and led both ponies inside, aware of the trail-weary tightness in his thighs. He had traveled a lot of miles clamping a saddle between his legs, and they were letting him know that they had taken enough.

  ‘Who’s that!’ a voice called querulously from the shadows of the hay- and animal-smelling barn.

  ‘Just a traveler. I need to put up my horses,’ Tracy called back at the shadows. That brought the response of a few grumbled swear words as if the man was unhappy with his own choice of occupation on this day. After a minute a man with a pitchfork in his hand, his face lined with deep furrows, came forward. He wore a red shirt under blue coveralls and scowled heavily by way of greeting. He grabbed Thunder’s bridle nearly out of Tracy’s hand and studied the sorrel’s flank.

  ‘I don’t recognize that brand,’ he said, squinting at Tracy Keyes. He switched his eyes to Changa who wore the same Double M brand and scowled still more deeply.

  ‘I’d be surprised if you did – that’s a Texas brand,’ Tracy told him.

  ‘Odd the way the letters are connected.’

  ‘That’s the way old Justin Mills designed it,’ Tracy said. The stableman still had him fixed with a mistrustful squint.

  ‘You ain’t a horse thief are you?’ the old man asked.

  Tracy half-smiled. He was getting tired of the man’s attitude. ‘No. I’ve got the papers on them in my saddle-bags if you want me to dig them out.’

  ‘Never mind – probably forged anyway.’

  Tracy had had enough. ‘Is there another stable in town?’ he asked.

  ‘None where you’ll get better care of your horses,’ the old man answered. ‘You’re a little touchy, aren’t you?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Tracy replied. ‘I’ve been long on the trail.’

  ‘Heading for Montana, are you?’ the stablehand asked, loosening the cinches on Thunder’s saddle.

  ‘No. Why would you think so?’

  ‘This time of the year the Texas cattle drives are winding down. Those Montana ranchers, a lot of them English lords and such, start putting advertisements in the Kansas newspapers, offering top wages for cowhands. To a lot of the boys it sounds good and when they reach the Montana lands in summer with the grass thick and green, it looks even better, and they hire on.’

  ‘The trouble is they ain’t seen anything like a Montana blizzard in Texas. They tell me whole herds freeze off – thousands of beef. You ever try herding cattle in a blizzard? Come spring most of the cowboys pull their freight out of there. Someone said that those Montana ranches lose as many men as they do cattle as soon as the weather gets warm enough to ride away. They’re always short of men,’ the stablehand shrugged. ‘That’s why I asked you if you were heading farther north.’

  ‘Don’t Wyoming ranchers have the same problems?’ Tracy asked ‘Winters here are almost as hard, aren’t they?’

  ‘They can be hard,’ the stablehand agreed, ‘but down here we don’t run that many cattle. And we’ve got a little more common sense. Anybody would’ve told those Montana ranchers what they were getting into – anyone but the men who were selling the land and the cattle to them – by mail a lot of the times.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Tracy said, untying his goods from Changa’s back, ‘That’s not why I’m up here.’

  ‘No? Looking for somebody, are you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Tracy had to admit. He had to start asking around somewhere; he might as well tell this man.

  ‘His name is Joe Savage. Ever heard of him?’

  ‘No, I’m just a newborn,’ the man answered, his eyes narrowing, his scowl deepening.

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nbsp; ‘’Course I heard of him.’ His eyes brightened a little. ‘So that’s what you are. Another bounty hunter?’

  ‘You see, it’s like this.…’ Tracy started to explain, but the old man cut him off as he slipped Thunder’s bit and unbuckled the throat latch on his bridle.

  ‘That at least is a respectable profession,’ the stablehand said. ‘Better than being a cowboy by far. If your sort can rid the territory of men like Joe Savage, it will be a better place for all of us to live.’

  ‘You did know him, then?’

  ‘I know things he’s done. They say he’s dead, but I never seen the body. If you need any details about Savage, I recommend you talk to the town marshal just up the street there,’ he said, motioning with his whiskered chin.

  ‘Good luck to you, stranger,’ the old man said. ‘But I got to tell you that you’re not the only man chasing that bounty. The last one beat you up here by just a few days.’

  ‘But if Joe Savage is dead already.…’

  ‘That’s what they’re saying, but even if he is, you know how long it takes for the word to spread. A man who’s been on the trail for weeks just getting here wouldn’t necessarily know that. Besides, I’m not so sure Joe Savage is dead.’

  ‘Can you tell me …?’

  ‘I already gave you my best advice, mister: go talk to the marshal. Me, I’ve got work to attend to.’

  Thunder and Changa were led away into the stable depths and Tracy turned and went out into the day.

  The sky was a clear, clean blue, unmarred by a single wisp of cloud. The town of Baker was bustling, but there was none of that urgent, almost frenetic, movement that you saw in a place like Abilene. Folks here knew where they were going, knew that they could make it without giving themselves a stroke, it seemed.

  Pedestrians moved at a reasonable pace along the plankwalks; horses were held to a trot. No one gave Tracy more than a glance. Probably they all assumed that he was as the man at the stable had sized him up – a cowboy moving on toward Montana where the wages were high and the winter risks higher.

  The stablehand had undoubtedly given Tracy the best advice: talk to the local lawman. He was beginning to get an idea about why Joe Savage had been killed, but he hated the idea of having to tell his mother and Aunt Enora that Joe had been an outlaw. It could be that there was another side to the story. If not, at the very least, he could visit Joe Savage’s grave, though he couldn’t see how that would comfort his aunt.

  If there was a grave. If Joe Savage was really dead. The stablehand seemed unconvinced. The town marshal would certainly know more about it. For example, even if he had no knowledge of the manner of Joe’s passing, he would certainly have received a bulletin canceling the bounty on him. That money, if claimed in Baker, would have to come out of the town’s coffers until it could be reimbursed by the county or the territory – a slow process.

  Thinking of the bounty caused Tracy to remember that he had been told that a bounty hunter had drifted into Baker only a few days earlier. True, news traveled slowly out in the West, but bounty hunters, successful ones at least, were not stupid. They constantly checked in with local law officers to see if a man they were after had had his bounty rescinded. That saved weeks, miles of trying to track down a man who had already been captured or had died.

  All Tracy knew was that his cousin was supposed to be dead. The stableman and a bounty hunter both seemed unconvinced. What did the marshal think?

  Aaron Cutler was behind his desk, feet propped up, when Tracy entered the town marshal’s office. Cutler was not an intimidating figure, but his eyes spoke of cold, deliberate efficiency. He looked to be of a certain type Tracy had encountered before. He would ask you once, pleasantly, to behave, and if you didn’t comply, he would crack your skull for you.

  ‘What now?’ the marshal said without apparent malice.

  ‘I’m looking for a man named—’

  ‘Joe Savage,’ the marshal finished for him. ‘And I’ll tell you what I told your friend: I don’t have any idea where he is or what might have happened to him.’

  ‘My friend?’ Tracy asked, puzzled.

  ‘Whatever he is. The other bounty hunter. I haven’t seen Joe Savage in three months, thank God. And I don’t care if I never see him again.’

  Tracy took a seat in a wooden straight-backed chair without having been invited. ‘A rough man, was he?’

  ‘Pretty rough,’ the marshal said, his eyes narrowing. ‘I mean, he didn’t strike you that way, just as a pretty lively sort of man with an easy smile, but he sure managed to get himself into a lot of trouble.’

  ‘In Baker, you mean?’

  ‘No.’ Cutler shook his head. ‘We don’t stand for that sort of stuff around here. The boys would have taken him out and strung him up. Worst I can remember is him getting into a fist-fight over at the Tip Top Saloon. But word came in from all over about him.

  ‘I would guess that he saved Baker as a sort of safe haven where he could come and purchase his goods without trouble.’

  ‘Is he dead?’ Tracy blurted out.

  ‘Some say he is, others say he isn’t. Me, I don’t know and don’t much care.’

  ‘What’s the county sheriff say?’

  ‘We haven’t got one,’ Cutler said. ‘They call this Johnson County, but as of now it hasn’t been properly surveyed or mapped. It may be a part of Johnson County or may not. No one knows. All I know is this: when you ride into town from the south there’s a sign identifying this as Baker – if the sign’s still standing; if you come in from the north there’s another sign that identifies the town as Baker. What happens between those two signs is my business; anything beyond them is not.’

  ‘Where would you guess Savage has gone to?’

  ‘That’s the same question the last man asked me,’ the marshal said. ‘That thousand dollars on Joe Savage’s head gets your sort all worked up, doesn’t it?’ Cutler looked thoughtful briefly. ‘Well I guess it would – that’s nearly three years of a cowhand’s pay, isn’t it?’

  ‘Close to it,’ Tracy agreed. He was still watching Cutler expectantly. Finally the marshal leaned forward and looked directly into Tracy Keyes’s eyes.

  ‘I might as well tell you – I told the other bounty hunter: if I had to hazard a guess, I’d say that Joe Savage is still up around the Eagle Rock area. That was the last place we had him reported. That’s where he might be.’

  ‘If he’s still alive.’

  ‘If he’s still alive,’ Marshal Cutler said, nodding.

  TWO

  There was little point in pressing the marshal any further. Tracy decided that he needed some directions. He didn’t know if Eagle Rock was nearby or a hundred miles away. He thought it must be fairly close if, as the marshal had said, Joe Savage had come into Baker for supplies when he needed them.

  In need of information, Tracy ambled off toward the nearest saloon, which turned out to be the Tip Top, as Cutler had mentioned.

  He didn’t make it that far before he was pulled up short, rudely, by a man with a black mustache wearing a white shirt and faded yellow vest. The man stepped in front of him on the street and said roughly:

  ‘Your horses are in the other direction.’ The stranger had a lisp and one bad eye, which was clouded.

  ‘I guess I know that,’ Tracy replied softly.

  ‘Here’s something else you should know,’ the man said in a low growl. ‘I don’t like anybody dogging my backtrail. Get it!’

  ‘I’ve nothing to do with you,’ Tracy answered. The stranger was starting to irritate him.

  ‘No? You’re looking for someone, right? Joe Savage? They told me at the stable. And I saw you come out of the marshal’s office just now. The name is Jack Warren, and Joe Savage is my meat, sonny. I’ll brook no interference.’

  ‘Joe Savage is dead,’ Tracy said.

  ‘So some say. Me, I doubt it, and as you know there’s a thousand dollars on his head. There’s no other reason you should be looking for him, is there?’

  Yes, there was, but Tracy didn’t feel the need to stand in the middle of the street in a strange town, discussing it with a man he didn’t know. ‘I’m not trying to interfere with you,’ he replied.

  ‘See that you don’t,’ the mustached man warned before he turned away and walked across the street.