Pale Horse, Robert L. Ross [beach read book .TXT] 📗

way to pleasant dreams and much needed rest for the both of them.
With the morning sun to beckon them, he and Spirit arose, eager to put the last bit of the mountain behind them. Their next destination was the small town of Big Bear, just a couple more hours off the mountain. A quick stop in town to pick up supplies for the 4 day trip ahead was in order, and an hour or so to say hello to a few of the people he knew that lived there. He knew there may be trouble when he got there, as it always seemed to find him anytime he appeared in any of the small towns scattered about the plains, because of the way he dressed and the length of his hair. His buckskins and moccasin boots didn't go over very well with the local cowboys and country folk that inhabited such places, but in Big Bear, he knew the sheriff well, and did his best to avoid any trouble. Though the legend of wild tales and speculation often proceeded him, especially in Big Bear, where he was commonly known and seen every few months when he came down from the mountain for supplies, there always seemed to be some drunken buffoon wanting to make a name for himself by going up against the infamous “Pale Horse”, the “half-breed mountaineer”.
With his trusty Colt .45 on his right hip, tied down “gunslinger-style”, and another tucked in the front of his buckskins, and the infamous Bowie-like knife strapped to his left hip, he was a walking advertisement that said to those with any lick of sense, “mind your business and walk on”, but of course, as fate would have it, not everyone had the “lick of sense” required to keep them from becoming yet another job for the undertaker and more town gossip for the locals to speak of over their Sunday dinners.
With the mountain now far behind them and the couple hours spent, he entered the town of Big Bear, headed straight for the sheriffs office to let him know he was in town. He was of the mind to cozy up to some of Sheriff Ross's fresh hot coffee and possibly a sweet apple danish or two that his lovely wife Shelly Lynn made for her husband each and every morning before he left for work. The blank stares of passer-by's never seemed to bother him much, he was definitely use to that, but the insulting call of “injun” and “half-breed” never set right with him, an affront to his adopted heritage and the pride he lived and walked with daily. “So far, so good”, he thought to himself as he dismounted and headed for the sheriffs office. A lot of stares, and even a kind nod or two from those who seemed to know him by face, but nothing else.
Upon walking into the Sheriffs office, the anticipated aroma of the coffee he was longing for, and of course, Shelly's apple danish's, filled the air. “Howdy, Horse” said his good friend that he hadn't seen in a few months.
“Hello Rob, good to see you” he replied, as he made his way to the friendly coffee pot that he knew he was always welcome to. “What brings you into town ? Time for supplies again”?, asked the sheriff.
“Yeah, gonna pick up a few things for my trip East into The Nations”. A few more minutes of catching up between them, and 3 apple danishes later,(one tucked away for Spirit, of course) found him on his way to the General store.
As he was walking into the store for his supplies, Sheriff Ross quickly came in behind him and said,
“Hey, I almost forgot, you received this telegram what must've been near a month ago, I was waiting for the next time I saw you to give it to you.” Pale Horse, a little surprised, took the telegram and said thank you to his friend, then stood there silent in the doorway while reading it.
“Trouble at Ben Turner's place”. Stop. “Could really use your help”. Stop. John Mills. Stop.
“John Mills”?, he thought to himself, “and Ben Turner”?. “It's been ages since I've seen either of them”, he said out loud to himself, as he turned and headed for the counter to order the supplies that he had come for. The trip to Ben's would only add a couple of days to his journey, and these were good friends from his past. He didn't think twice about going. After loading up his supplies, and climbing atop Spirit, he said to his companion, “Looks like we're headed due South, there's been a slight change in plans”. Before leaving town, a little worn and thirsty, he decided to stop by the saloon and have a drink or two. While in the saloon, he ran into an old friend, James “Catfish” Cathey. Now James was a wild man, lest there be any doubt, and someone he liked to drink with anytime he came into town wanting to “sew some wild oats”. Big Jim was definitely the man to do that with, and it looked as today would be no different.
“I was thinkin' just the other day it was about time you came down from that mountain of yours needin' supplies and such, How the hell are ya' Buck” ? It was rare that someone called him Buck, and it always made him stop and think for a moment when being addressed as such, but he cordially replied,
“Been just fine, Jim, how are you”? “Cant complain too much, but I reckon I will just a little when I tell ya' that Sheryl Denise is drivin' me crazier than a loon, but what do ya' expect after so many years of draggin' that ol' ball & chain around”, he said laughing, and giving his drinkin' buddy a friendly slap on the back.
“Barkeep, I believe my friend and I'll have a couple of shots of your very finest, if'n you don't mind”, said Jim as he lay 2 bits on the counter. “And a couple of the cold & frosty's to wash them down”, added Pale Horse, also tossing his silver on the bar. While enjoying their fine Irish elixir, and talking about past drinking binges and the hangovers that followed, Pale Horse noticeably, from sheer habit, kept a watchful eye about the room for whatever trouble may present itself.
The friendly small talk and the whiskey flowed for a good half hour between them, when the frivolity was suddenly broken up by some drunk, wanna-be gunslinger as he shouted his intoxicated ignorance from the rear of the bar. “Hey Chief, why don't you do some sort of a rain dance or somethin' for me and my friends here”? No sooner had he opened his mouth, another patron quickly walked up to the man and whispered that, “He would be wise to shut up immediately”, and not only discontinue with his chiding of the man at the bar, but suggested he “Apologize as soon as possible and get out of there as quick as his drunken feet would carry him.”
Not deterred by the advice given, and fueled by the liquor within, the foolish man continued on with his barrage of racial insults for another ill-advised minute before Pale Horse politely excused himself from the bar, telling his friend to “Order a couple of more shots, and as many beers”, and that he “Would be back momentarily”.
He wasn't one for a lot of words, especially in situations such as these. Upon approaching the mans table, he violently hog-slapped him with the butt of his Bowie knife, quickly removed the mans gun from the tied down holster, dropping it to the saloon floor and kicking it across the room. To the man's wide eyed surprise, he then grabbed the cowboy by his hair and yanked his foolish head back, and with the other hand, he got hold of the mans jaw, and prying it open, commenced to biting the mans tongue out and spitting it in the remainder of his beer that sat half empty on the table in front of him. Wiping the blood from his mouth, he said aloud as he made his way back to the bar,
“I have undoubtedly done this town a favor by silencing the slanderous poison that flowed from the fool you see before you”. The crowd, stunned and quiet, sat in horror at the spectacle they had just seen. The piano man, fell silent as well, with the loud silence of his fingers still. Pale Horse glanced over at him with a look of determination, and the piano once more began to ring out its happy tune.
As he and Jim drank the shots and beers previously ordered, a couple of friends escorted the speechless fool out of the bar and to the doctors office down the street. Jim never said a word to him about it, though he unconsciously began calling him Pale Horse throughout the rest of their conversations. He thought nothing of it, as he was often called that far more than the English name he was sometimes known for. Finishing off the last of his beer, he turned to his friend and said, “The trail before me is a long one, friend, I need to be on my way”. Jim stood up, and while shaking his hand said to him, “Well, as always, your visit has been one to remember, be safe my friend and I'll see you next time you're in town”. With that, he walked out of the saloon, climbed aboard Spirit, and headed out of town.
In the desert plains, time seems to stand still. The hot and shifting sands are practically void of any life, other than the rare sight of a horned-back lizard, scouring the sands for something to eat, venomous red and black scorpions, fighting to the demise of one or the other, or the occasional Diamondback rattlesnake that slithers menacingly from one shadowed sanctuary of shade to another. Broken and deteriorating skeletal shards of the unfortunate lie scattered about, littering the desolate path of those that had lost their way. Many had journeyed through the unforgiving hell without the sufficient amounts of water and the supplies needed to survive the harsh, heat soaked days that seemed to lie in wait for the chance to drain every drop of life slowly out of them. He was well aware of the damage the desert sun could inflict on one's body and the terrible disorienting effect it could have on one's mind. These were the fatal consequences of not being prepared. Water could always be found within the indigenous cactus that surrounded him, and sometimes pooled under the larger rocks, these were some of the things he learned as a boy, under the guidance of his father, Two Feathers. There were rare, small shallow pools of stagnant water along the way, if the summer rains were kind, and knowing the whereabouts of these had saved many a man, and his horse's life when faced with throat parching thirst on one's journey through these lands. As he made his way across the barren plains, he took it slow and easy, as not to push Spirit or himself, to assure they were not counted among the dead that lay in ruin around them. After an hour or so of riding, there, in the near distance, was a large boulder mass of protruding stone, often referred to as The Devil's Hand, because of its desolate location and the near five finger formation that eerily resembled a hand reaching skyward out of the ground, and under it, sheltered by shadows given, was the first shallow watering hole. He guided his horse towards the pool