Beneath the New Mexico Skies
Ron Lewis
Beneath the New Mexico Skies
The Breck Family Chronicles #1
Ron Lewis
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© Copyright 2022/24 Ron Lewis
This is a work of fiction and not intended to be historically accurate, but merely a representation of the times. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to any person, living or dead, is merely coincidental and unintentional. Historical characters used are strictly for dramatic purposes. This story contains some violence.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
The Dying Man
The Fired Hand
Faded Tin Star
The Dying Man
New Mexico Territory 1878
From Cleve Breck’s Journal
It was gold country, and more miners than anything else populated the area. A working goldmine in the foothills, owned by a mining conglomerate, hired a bevy of miners for wages. The success of this outfit attracted the adventurers to Elizabethtown. These rugged men hoped to make a killing. The safest route for the miners was working for others.
But many were out for a dollar, whatever way they might come by it. No matter how big a boondoggle a thing became, the men who wanted to get rich quick changed their plans while steadfast fellows hung in until the bitter end.
No wonder to ranchers when cattle disappeared from herds. After all, rustling cattle was easier than panning for gold.
Running a ranch was a flinty business, especially in those early days. Nonetheless, a year into it, we had two hired hands, two thousand head of cattle, two thousand three hundred acres of good New Mexico land, and a bank mortgage. Even so, we had done well enough. My wife, the boy, and I loved our life.
We were fortunate to have purchased our herd, on the cheap back in Texas. Our hired hands and my family drove them here. As luck would have it, we sold a few head of cattle a week to the local restaurants. Still, it wasn’t an easy life. It takes time for herds to grow, but we had close to a 400-head increase of animals after two years, even with the weekly sales. The following spring, we managed to drive 500 head or more to market.
We watched over the herd, prevented cows from drifting too far afield, and got the calves branded before another rancher claimed them as his own. And always, each of us, family and hands, kept our eyes on the horizon for something or someone that didn’t belong.
I remember the event well; it happened the Saturday before the summer school session. Micah, my son, was excited to go back. Now, I understood his anticipation was more about not riding and working and less than an eagerness to learn. He’d be missing the work before the third week.
“Mr. Breck,” Heck Davidson said, “there’s a big medicine show in town. I hear-tell, from Freed’s hands, ‘t’ain’t too raunchy for the younglings. Iffin y’all care to mosey into town, me and Sly will keep eyes peeled over them critters if you want.”
“Come to town yourselves,” I said, “when you finish the chores. Let’s let the cattle tend to themselves until Monday. Besides, Buck O’Brian’s boys are riding range this weekend, and they’ll watch over our stock as well as theirs. We’ll be staying in town at the hotel tonight, I think. What about you and Whitlock?”
“Oh, Sly and me will find a place to hunker down for the night. I’m sure.”
“No trouble, you hear me, Heck. Marshal Thomas Dullard and I are good friends. I’d hate if my hired help made trouble for him.”
“We’ll be gentle as goat’s milk, mild as toast,” he said with a slight grin. “Honest Injun. But all bets are off if I get cheated at poker. I’ll try, real hard, not to sit with some tinhorn cheater.”
“You do that,” I said, with a laugh and a slap on his back.
“You be wanting the buggy or buckboard?”
“Olive is planning on picking up supplies.”
“Buckboard it is,” Heck said. Cupping his hands to his mouth, he shouted, “Sly, hitch up the buckboard for Mr. Breck, will you?”
“Well, which you want me to do first? Brand them three calves in the corral, or hitch the wagon?” Sly yelled back, branding iron in his hand, twirling it in the fire’s flame.
“Buckboard first, branding second, and you should rope one of them and have them ready afore you heat the iron. I’ll be thar to help you in a minute.”
“Okay, I’ll tell you this, Mr. Breck, there ain’t no lazy folk on the Lazy B Ranch,” Sly yelled.
I turned to my man and hollered, “I know, Heck. Got the best of the best here.”
As we traveled the three miles toward Elizabethtown, Olive and I talked. Micah listened, his head wobbling from one of us to the other. After a bit, Olive noted my rifle, propped against the front of the buckboard, and my handgun on my side.
“Both your guns, Cleve, why you loaded for bear?”
“I’m hoping to see a deer on the way back tomorrow,” I said. In truth, I didn’t know why I took both. Indeed, I shouldn’t’ve needed either, let alone a handgun and a rifle.
“I haven’t shot a deer in a long time. Good thinking, husband. But what will you be using to hunt with?” she said and laughed. “We see a deer, my love, and I’ll take the shot.
As we rounded a curve, we caught sight of a riderless red roan. Saddled with reins in place on his neck, the mare stood chewing grass.
“Either the rider lost his mount, or the cayuse lost her horseman,” Olive said. “Wonder where the t’other one is?”
“Depends on how fond of the owner the horse is,” I said, pulling our horse to a halt.
A soft, painful moan came from the tall grass on the far side of the pony.
“Guess she’s fond of him, Ma,” Micah said
“Yes, Micah, I guess she is,” my wife said.
“You stay here, son.” I clambered to the ground, grabbed my rifle, and moved toward the sound.
A man, about fifty-five years old, lay in the weeds. He had a bullet wound in his belly, and the ground was with from his blood. Bending down to him, I checked him over. Only the one injury.
“I’m Gillum,” the stranger said, “Gillum Walker. I need to get to Elizabethtown. You see, I have something for the marshal thar. Proof, evidence of a crime, seven years back.” Walker talked slow, fighting to breathe, not even opening his eyes. “Road through the night… came from the Nest, I mean, Eagles Nest.”
Gillum Walker lost consciousness.
Picking him up, hoisting him over one arm, I carried him to the buckboard, and carefully stretched him out on the wooden deck.
“Olive,” I said, “best fetch the canteen from under the seat and settle in back here. See if you can keep him alive until we get him to Doc Buchanan.”
Hustling over the seat, as ladylike as possible, Olive settled in next to the man, lifting his head to her lap. His eyes fluttered open.
“Angel, have you come for me?” the man said.
“Let’s keep you here and let the angels take a rest, Mister. Try not to jostle him about, husband.”
“Boy, ride the man’s horse to town and tell Doc he has a patient.”
“Yes, sir,” my ten-year-old son said as he jumped from the wagon, raced to the horse, and leaped into the saddle.
“Don’t hurt yourself,” my wife yelled at him.
“Oh, Ma!”
It took a little longer to get him to town than average. He handled the trip well, though he cried out in pain a few times. I’d hoped he’d lose consciousness, but the man held on all the way, mumbling about how he’d proved it, whatever it was.
As I carried him to the doctor’s office, Marshal Dullard saw me and joined to help. Dullared took a sharp gulp as soon as he laid eyes on the fellow.
“Gillum, Gillum, old friend,” Marshal Dullard said.