Part Two of the Cornerstone Trilogy

Another piece of my creative fiction for your entertainment and contemplation. (See SNEAK PREVIEW for Part One in this little saga)

*

**

I pondered what the old bartender had told me as the whiskey settled in my stomach. Clearly he had no idea who he was talking to, or he wouldn’t have divulged his dilemma.

You see, I’m a reporter for the Los Angeles Observer, and I was in Dry Gulp investigating a crime. All right, I’m a cub reporter and I was there on vacation at my employer’s suggestion. Okay, okay! He chased me out of town after I got fresh with his daughter, Matilda, but that’s a whole ‘nother story.

Anyway, a couple weeks prior, my resource at the telegraph office had tipped me off. Two gentlemen, both sporting black eyes and numerous bruises, and one with his arm in a sling, sent a telegram addressed to a renowned franchiser back east. Said they’d been assaulted by the cowboys at that Cornerstone Ranch of his, and what did he want them to do now.

I made the acquaintance once of some cowboys from that Ranch at a certain establishment down by the docks. They seemed to have plenty of money to throw around. And they relieved me of my wad. I’m no great shakes at poker, but I think they cheated. I’d sure like to see them get their comeuppance.

My banishment resulting from my little escapade with Matilda, had maybe put me where using my expert investigative skills, I could get back into her daddy’s good graces. I envisioned the headlines.

Cub Reporter Uncovers Plot 

to Take Over Back East Franchiser’s Ranch; 

Murder and Mayhem Averted Just in Time!

Great care must be taken. No accusations of yellow journalism for me. It might boost newspaper circulation but let Hearst and Pulitzer settle that score without my help. As a professional, I intend to always proceed with ethics. My stories will have pathos, human interest, and be sympathetic to the underdog, whenever I find one and it doesn’t bite me first. And my stories will always be entirely verifiable.

I started the process immediately by interviewing the bartender.

“Sir,” I said, in my best professional manner, “those two gentlemen you mentioned, why were they here and why did they get manhandled?”

“I guess they wuz here ta c’llect the income fer the ranch’s real boss. But Clay’s set on keepin’ it fer hisself.”

“Clay, the ranch foreman? What’s he got against his boss?”

“I dunno, young feller,” the barkeep replied. “But I shore hope the boss don’t send his son out here like I heard he wuz. I jest know they’re gonna kill ‘im.”

“Will you inform the local law enforcement agency?” 

*

The old man’s eyebrows cinched, “The who?”

“Uh, the sheriff, sir,” I said, arching my own.

“Well, now, I jest don’t rightly know. Granted, my life ain’t that important, but ‘tis mine an’ I’d like ta keep it fer a spell. My wife an’ little girl prob’ly be happy ‘bout that too. Clay made it crystal clear he’d come a-gunnin’ fer me if I messed with his business.”

Like cotton on a spindle, my brain was already busily spinning words together.

*

The sound of boots pounding on the boardwalk interrupted my thoughts and a man burst through the doors.

“Hangin’,” he gasped. “Weepin’ willa’ tree—the gully—Clay and his men! Hurry, mebbe we can stop ‘em!”

I grabbed my pencil and my composition book and rushed out with the rest of the crowd.

But we were too late. A grotesque shadow down the gully matched the figure suspended on a rope. The lynch mob was nowhere to be seen. The whiskey I’d so recently enjoyed threatened to unman me but I had a job to do.

*

“Sheriff, what’s next?” I somberly asked the lawman as he turned his horse towards town.

**

“I figger they’ve skedaddled back to the ranch,” he said. “I shore ain’t goin’ after ‘em alone. Reckon I’ll round up a posse. Gotta send someone down to Los Angeles too.” He shook his head, “We need us a telegraph office up here.”

While some men took the body down, I sketched a picture of the scene. I felt sure it would have a prominent spot on the front page of the Observer when I got back to Los Angeles. I was confident my boss would assign me the follow up on this story. Would the murderers be brought to justice? Would the owner of the Cornerstone Ranch come to avenge his son’s death? I hoped I’d get to interview this influential man. It’d be this journalist’s highest achievement.

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

(**Photo taken at Lynden Pioneer Museum, located in Northwest Washington state)

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)