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.
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| * |
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
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.”
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| ** |
“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)
