PART THREE OF THE CORNERSTONE SAGA

This is the third and last episode in the saga of Cornerstone Ranch; unless inspiration takes me back there again at some point. Thank you for reading! I’d love to hear from you. (If you need to get caught up before reading this, see Part One and Part Two)

Lips set in a smile of smug satisfaction, Clayton caressed the ledger’s leather cover. Things were looking mighty good here at Cornerstone Ranch. Lush pastureland sustained ever-increasing herds of cattle and flocks of sheep. Along with a creek running through the 100,000 acres, good fortune had led Clayton to dig water wells in just the right spots. Even in the dry California summer nobody went thirsty.

  

*

The Cornerstone Ranch foreman chuckled as he anticipated an entertaining evening later at the saloon in Dry Gulp.

That town’s gonna have to change its name one of these here days, he mused. Ain’t no way none of us is goin’ thirsty no how.

**

Everyone there knows they owe their success to me and my boys out here on the ranch. We bring ‘em all the business they can handle.

All the same, a small shudder rose from some locked down place in his middle when he looked out the window. The weeping willow at the edge of the gully whispered an oft-repeated accusation. Murderer.

Clayton flapped his hat at the window dismissively. Ain’t nothin’ but the breeze in that durn tree.  He sauntered out of the ranch house and saddled his horse. Time to survey the little kingdom he considered his own. It had been many years since Cornerstone’s owner, a gentleman who lived on the eastern coast, had visited. All the time and effort Clayton had put in gave him cause to believe he was more owner than Mr. Eastern Fancy Pants would ever be.

**

Clayton spit a stream of tobacco juice onto the corral’s hard packed dirt. 

It’d be a blue moon that’d see Mr. Fancy Pants settin’ foot here again. To top if off, them ‘messages’ I sent by way of Mr. Fancy Pants’ agents as well as that son of his, oughta be enough to scare those fancy pants right offa him. He’ll stay away for good.

That consarned son of his shoulda never left home. I told him to skedaddle before he ended up gettin’ tangled in my rope. I was just protectin’ what’s rightly mine! Ain’t nobody gonna take it from me!

 

The weeping willow stirred again and a shiver went up Clayton’s spine. He spurred his horse out onto the range and left the willow far behind. 

Squinting his eyes against the glare of the midday sun, Clayton peered across the high chaparral. Was that a plume of smoke he saw just beyond the ridge leading to Santiago Peak? He removed his hat and wiped the sweat off his face with the red bandana he wore around his neck. 

Nah, must’ve been a cloud of deerflies. It’s gone now.

Fire was an ever-present threat at this time of year. He was real strict with his cowhands about leaving fires unattended or tossing smoldering cigarette butts. To be on the safe side, he’d send Little George out to investigate.

After dinner Clayton put on a clean shirt.  “Hey, Willy,” he called to his lead ranch hand, “I’m headed into town. You’re in charge. Most of the boys are goin’ with me.”

**

“Okay, boss,” Willy’s bushy eyebrows waggled up and down as he pictured the fun they’d be having. Then he remembered something, “Oh, hey, boss. Little George ain’t come back yet from scoutin’ out that bit o’ smoke ya seen. Ya reckon he’s alright?”

“Shucks! You know the man’s part Juaneno Indian,” Clayton rolled his eyes. “Every so often he takes it into his head he’s gotta observe some ceremony to the moon or somethin’. Nah, I ain’t worried ‘bout him.”

With that Clayton and the boys, whooping and hollering, galloped off to town.

Several hours later, bleary-eyed, they let their horses navigate through deep midnight shadows. Slim and Whit’s harmonizing about not being buried ‘neath the western skies on the lone prairie prompted Clayton’s gaze upward. He let out a gasp. “What in tarnation is that?”

“Why, that’s a blue moon,” Slim replied, his higher education kicking in. “And I believe I smell smoke, through which we are viewing that celestial orb.”

Fear surged through Clayton, dispelling the whiskey-induced stupor. Little George! Fire!

As they passed the weeping willow and neared the ranch, complete soberness hit. A horse-drawn buggy waited at the gate, a tall immaculately dressed figure alongside. In a long line to either side, mounted soldiers stood firm, fire reflecting in their drawn sabers.

***

“Boss,” Slim said, “It appears Mr. Eastern Fancy Pants has returned and intends to avenge his heir with flame and sword."

Slim reined in his horse and doffed his hat. “Adios, Clayton, adios.”

(* Photo taken at Hovander Homestead Park, Ferndale, Washington)

(** Photo taken at Cramer's Farm, an event venue in Northwest Washington State)

(*** Photo taken at Lynden Pioneer Museum, Lynden, Washington)

SNEAK PREVIEW!

When I come to the end of writing a story and I look back on it, realizing that a few hours ago this story did not exist, to go from a blank screen on my computer monitor to word-sketched scenes and characters—I am astonished. This feeling of gratefulness to be allowed that adventure is almost overwhelming. Top that off with the opportunity to have the story published, entertaining my readers and perhaps revealing an underlying truth, brings me to doing the happy dance.

I don’t have the date when the book will be published, but I have signed a release for Breath of Fresh Air Press to include the following fictional story in their Mixed Blessings Books series, coming out in the near future. Originally written in November, 2010, for faithwriters.com’s weekly writing challenge, this story received an Editor’s Choice award. Later weekly challenges prompted two more stories set in this fictional town of Dry Gulp. I’ll be featuring those stories here in my little corner soon. Now for your reading pleasure and to whet your appetite for the entire Mixed Blessings series, I give you:

  

Rumors don’t come howlin’ through the window like a Santa Ana wind at four o’clock in the mornin’. Nope, more ‘n’ likely they come tantalizin’ like a breeze, lickin’ at yer ears, temptin’ ya to position yerself for a mite more o’ folks’ palavarin’.

I wish to high heaven I’d fastened the shutters snug agin’ my own meddlesomeness. If I’d’a done that, I mightn’t be in this here pickle, havin’ to make a life alterin’ decision.

I been owner o’ The Dry Gulp Saloon here nigh onto twenty years, offerin’ the best whiskey in town. And sasspariller fer the ladies. I ain’t opposed to females frequentin’ my establishment a’tall. But if it weren’t fer womenfolk I might’a never heard what I’m about to tell ya. So I’m a tad conflicted about allowin’ ‘em in.

Boy howdy, there’s this big outfit outside o’ town, The Cornerstone Ranch. It’s been there since before I come out west. Owner lives back east. I been out there, providin’ liquid sustenance at a barn dance, so I know the foreman. Clay seems like a good ol’ cowpoke, never done me no harm anywise. He’s shore made somethin’ out’a that spread. Ever’ fall his cowhands drive hundreds o’ head o’ cattle to the railroad, herds so big there don’t seem to be no end to ‘em. 

Must take in some purdy good money too ‘cause Clay and the boys drop more’n a bit o’ silver on this here countertop o’ mine.

  

I asked Clay once about his boss. He said he ain’t heard from the feller in years, figgers he done lost interest in the place. That don’t bother Clay none. Clay says, “Me and the boys’re doin’ mighty fine. Don’t need him messin’ things up. We been doin’ all the work all these years—I figger it’s MY place now. He ever shows up? Might jest be a show down in the streets, that’s all!”

I must’a looked a tetch pale faced ‘cause Clay grinned and clapped me on the back. “Don’tcha worry none, ol’ feller,” he said. “Mr. High Falutin’ Eastern Fancy Pants ain’t a’comin’! I’m shore he got better things to do than ride all this way on dusty trains and stagecoaches an’ all. You jest tend yer bar and no trouble’ll come to ya.” 

Well, I wadded my botherment like a hankeychief in my back pocket and got on with my saloon keepin’, like the man said.

I got me a little gal, Daisy Rose, borned to me and my wife seven years ago. My wife’s one o’ those ladies who come in fer my sasspariller. She ended up stayin’. I ain’t sorry Daisy Rose come along but like I said, I’m a mite conflicted.

I let Daisy Rose have the run o’ the place. She keeps me up on the doin’s ‘round here. They say womenfolk love bearin’ tales but I gotta ‘fess up, to my shame, my ears’re always flappin’ fer the tale to be told. So I ain’t never told Daisy not to eavesdrop.

One day Daisy tells me what she heard while she was doin’ her little chores, sweepin’ the storage room. She don’t know what it’s all about but it durn near made my blood freeze.

Seems a coupla Cornerstone cowboys was enjoyin’ a smoke out back. They’s laughin’ an’ talkin’ about how messengers from Mr. Fancy Pants been comin’ regular-like to the ranch. How the cowhands got orders from Clay to give ‘em a message to take back to him. As Daisy Rose prattled, a remembrance come to my mind of a coupla well-dressed strangers that’d partook of a glass of my finest. Later I seen ‘em boardin’ the stage, a little worse fer wear. Now’s I think on it, ‘twas evidence of a cowpuncher’s blows.

Daisy’s a’pullin’ on my vest, “Papa, does Mr. Fancy Pants have a son? Willy and Little George said when Mr. Fancy Pants’ boy gets here, they’re gonna throw him a party in the gully where that ol’ weepin’ willow grows. What kinda party is a lynchin’ party, Papa? Maybe Willy and Little George’ll invite me.”

Now I gotta decide if’n I oughta bear this tale to the sheriff an’ run the risk o’ Clay’s six-shooter finding a place to put a plug in me. Or am I gonna let Mr. Fancy Pants’ boy get hung so’s I can go on benefitin’ from the Cornerstone’s silver?

I wish to heaven I’d’a made Daisy Rose stay home with her mama.

(Photographs taken at The Rusty Wagon, a local eatery)