the Gentleman Gunfighter, C. F. Allison [best e reader for android .txt] 📗

of control and consuming him and all he was. He knew why Spirit Hawk had sent him back to this place now. This anger must be extinguished once and for all or else it would destroy him. He began walking the village grounds looking for a release valve to his anger. It must be there or Spirit Hawk wouldn’t have sent him. But what could it be.

Clay saw a stream of smoke rising up to the sky from over the next hill. He decided to go check it out and see what its source was. Hopefully it was someone’s camp and not a prairie fire. He was leaning more towards a camp. It just didn’t seem to be the type smoke for the prairie to be a blaze.

When clay rode over the hilltop his face fell and a blank expression came over it. He was numb at the site of a small town that had been built over the rise from the former village. It all became clear now why the soldiers had attacked and killed everyone in site on that day. The white man wanted the lands for themselves and they knew relocating the Cheyenne that held it would only start a war. If they killed them all though, there would be no one left to retaliate. Or so they thought.

Clay sat on his horse looking at the town and stewing things over in his mind for a while before deciding to ride down into the town and look things over. As he rode into the town limits he saw the sign “Welcome to Savage Junction”. This inflamed his temper even more. His first thought was to start shooting everyone in site, but then his good sense stepped in and took over. He realized the people in this town probably had nothing to do with the slaughter of his then friends and family. He rode on until he sited a saloon halfway down one of the side streets.

Clay decided to go inside and get a drink and listen to the goings on to get a general idea of how long this town had been here. He walked inside the saloon and what he saw inside inflamed him beyond self-control. He saw pictures on all the walls of the establishment of dead Cheyenne braves, women and children. He couldn’t believe that someone would put this kind of memorials up. The horror of that day flooded back into his mind again. This time the memories were more anguish than anger.

Clay didn’t understand why he didn’t feel angry any longer he just knew the anger was gone. He knew something had to be done about the decorations but at the same time he knew it must be done without his anger flaring. He thought to himself for a little while and then decided what to do.

Clay walked over to the bar and ordered a bottle. “Who owns this saloon barkeep?” He asked the man behind the counter. “That would be me mister.” The man replied with a grin. “I noticed you admiring my accomplishments when you came in. My name’s Freedman. Colonel, United States Calvary retired.” He said. “I led the raid you see all over these walls. It cleared out all the redskins in this area and made it a safe place for decent white folks to live.” Clay couldn’t believe his ears hearing what the man was saying. Just the same though, he held his temper. “My name’s Allison.” Clay began, “My friends call me Clay.” The man behind the bar got an excited look on his face. “Well! Welcome to Savage Junction Mr. Allison. What brings a famous person like you to our humble town?” Clay grinned back and the man and said, “Oh I’m here looking for the yellow dog that killed my family and friends when I was young. Come over here a minute I want to show you something real interesting.”

The retired Colonel reluctantly came out from behind the bar. Now with a look of worry on his face and walked with Clay over to one of the pictures hanging on the wall. “You see this picture here of that soldier putting those two boys in that wagon?” He asked the man. “Yes sir,” the man replied. “We rescued a few captive children in the raid. Those boy’s were two of them.” Clay stood and looked at the picture for another minute then led the former Colonel to another picture on the wall. “This picture here of this man.” Clay began once more. “Is of a Holy Man being murdered. His name was Spirit Hawk, and he was my father while I was living with the Cheyenne. Those boys over there were me and my brother John. I am also called Washita of the Cheyenne Nation.” The man’s face turned white and he began to stutter. “Mr. Allison, I aint armed.” Clay gave a serious look to him and said, “I’ll come back in tomorrow and if you still have this place decorated with the slaughter of my family and friend’s you might want to be. The only reason I don’t kill you where you stand is because I believe you thought you were doing the right thing at the time. I do have one thing to tell you before I leave though. These people never killed anyone that didn’t threaten them or their families first. They were no different than anyone else in the territory.” With that having been said Clay turned and walked out the door.

Clay put his bottle in the saddlebag on his horse and mounted up. He rode through some more of the town then returned to where the Indian village once stood. Once there he began setting up camp and thinking about how he had handled things earlier that day. Even he was surprised at his reaction to the day’s events but he felt himself to be in a good place spiritually.

“Yatahey.” Clay heard a voice say. “Can I approach your fire sir?” Clay turned to see an older looking Indian standing not far away. “Of course you can father.” He replied to the elderly man. “Why do you call me father?” The old man inquired with a puzzled look on his face. “I am Washita of the Cheyenne nation.” Clay told him. “In my eyes all elders are father and always welcome in my camp.”

“Why you come to these sacred grounds Washita?” The old man asked. “I am on a spirit quest father.” Clay answered. At that the old Indian stood up and said, “I must leave you then and not hinder you on your quest.” Clay quickly stopped him and said, “No father. You are part of the reason for my visions and are welcome to stay. Please share my camp and your wisdom with me.” Clay and the old man spoke with each other deep into the night. Clay told him about his vision and what had happened in town. He told him how he used to handle those type things and how he handled it this time. The old man told Clay, “It sounds like your spirit is finally at peace and you have handled the confrontation in town the right way.” He said, “If the pictures of town are still there though, then the white firewater man is trying to trapped the spirits of the dead forever on his walls. That is true harm to our people to not be able to pass into the spirit world. To kill him would be a great thing for our people. It would be right with the Great Spirit.” Then the old man became quiet and made himself a place to lye down across the fire from Clay.

Morning came and Clay woke up to find the old man gone. Normally that wouldn’t seem strange to him but the plate he fed the old man with, and the cup the old man drank from were in their place inside his pack as if they had never been used. Clay looked around the campsite and couldn’t find as much as on single footprint that anyone else had ever been there no trace of any kind at all. Even the place the old man slept seemed to be undisturbed. ‘Was this a spirit from the spirit world or another vision?’ Clay wondered to himself.

All morning long Clay thought over the words that the old man said the night before. It was almost ten o’clock before he finished getting his camp picked up and his belongings put away. Clay mounted up and began his ride into town. He took his time going into town though he wanted to make sure the barkeep had plenty of time to get the pictures down.

He rode through the streets looking over the various businesses to see if anyone else had any pictures hanging up but they all just looked like your everyday run of the mill establishments. Clay made his way down the street to the saloon from the day before tied his horse to the hitching post and went inside.

“Mr. Allison welcome back sir.” A voice from behind the bar called out. “As you can see sir, all the picture have been taken down and piled over there in the corner.” He said pointing at the pile. “They are all yours to do with what you want. My gift to you. Call it an apology of sorts.” Clay thought it over for a minute and replied to the bartender, “Much obliged to you Colonel.” Then he ordered a bottle and told the Colonel he would return for the pictures in a little while.

Clay went down the street to the livery and rented a wagon for overnight with a team. He left his horse for collateral along with a hefty deposit to insure the livery owner he would return. He drove the wagon first to the Mercantile, then down to the saloon to get his pictures.

Clay returned to the old village site and began gather wood for a bonfire and set up his camp for the evening ceremony he had in mind. He meditated for a few hours and then unloaded the goods from the mercantile. Kerosene, some meat and a few other odds and ends.

After setting up his campfire and finishing his supper with a few drinks of whiskey done, Clay set at the task of meditating again to get into the spiritual frame of mind. He lit the bon fire and began the ritual Indian Dance to pay tribute to the Great Spirit. As he danced he began tossing the pictures into the bon fire to free all the trapped spirits that were within them. After he finished his task he looked around the old village and saw a light fog that had lifted about twelve inches off the ground. He could hear the sounds of the wild animals all calling out as if in harmony to sound a release. He