Despite the calendar saying the 13th of November, the Denver stockyards were warm. The air was choked with dust, and the noise of drovers shouting. Cattle bawled, as hundreds of beasts were moved through pens. The cacophony of industrial machines up Elyria Street at the canning facilities was enough that Michael had to shout to Rockwell to be heard over the din.
The noise of the large city grated on Michael’s exhausted nerves. He signaled Tick to herd the four healthy yearlings into the pen indicated by the foreman. Two of his steers had crossed Red Desert poorly, and Michael doubted he was going to get more than canning prices for them. The smell from the canneries turned his stomach. A haze from coal fire and steam settled with the dust. Michael turned his face back to the men in the pen sorting his cattle.
He dismounted from the mare and called Tick. That was when he caught a glimpse of himself in the window of a nearby building. He hardly recognized himself. His beard had filled in, his face was browned from the sun, and dust covered him from head to toe. Michael stepped back, flinching at his own appearance. He licked his teeth and lips, before spitting the silt into the dust at his feet. Tick sat, leaning against Michael’s leg, tongue lolling.
Michael watched the drovers sort the little herd he had brought. Numbers were called but he had little understanding of what they meant. After what seemed an eternity the foreman approached him.
“What’s today’s prices?” Michael asked.
The foreman checked his sheet. “I can likely give you seventeen a head for the four healthy ones, but the two sick? Maybe seven?”
Michael frowned, “That’s long yearlin’ Angus.”
The foreman shrugged. “If they’d have been corn-fed, you’d have gotten more. But these here grass-fed ones? Cain’t offer that much.”
Michael nodded. “Alright, I’ll take what ya can give me”
. The man nodded his head and handed Michael a green slip of paper.
“Take this over ta the cash shack. They’ll set ya up right.”
“Much obliged,”
Michael took the sheet of paper, folded it and slipped it into his shirt pocket.
“Come on, boy,” he said, tapping his thigh once. Tick followed behind, tail wagging.
Michael made his way to the cashier’s shed, a ramshackle building at the edge of the stockyards. A man in a green visor with rolled shirt sleeves chewing on an unlit cigar looked at him through the window.
“What can I do ya fer?”
Michael pulled the green tally sheet from his pocket and handed it to the cashier.
“ I brought six in from Lander.”
The man looked over the paper and squinted. “Well after feeding fees and the pen fee, that’ll be seventy-three dollars and sixty-one cents.”
Michael stared at the numbers feeling personally insulted.
Five weeks of work, five weeks of sleeping on the ground, five weeks of missin’ my wife.
He slowly lifted the grease pencil to sign for his coins and cash. It would have to be enough. He knew, back home, Nevels would already be tacking on interest.
The cashier handed him the money in a canvas sack. Michael tipped his hat before gathering the bay’s reins in his hand. His mind already whirling with the figures against the supplies he still needed to obtain before he could return home.
He and Wyatt had done without for years, and Sadie didn’t complain, but she needed a new coat for winter, and she had mentioned curtains.
Rockwell met him by the pens.
“You look like someone stole Tick.”
Michael lifted his head. “Jest didn’t get as much as I was wantin’”
Rockwell nodded, “Yeah, it’s tough.”
He clapped Michael on the shoulder, “There is a stable at the end of the row. Cost a nickel to board the mare for the night. The boys and I are headed to Market for a drink, you comin’?”
Michael considered, He needed to get to the bank to wire the funds to Sadie, but the sun was still high enough.
He shrugged, “I got a few minutes..”
Rockwell grinned, “Good man.”
~
The sights and sounds of Market street were a different beast from the stockyard, less dusty, but no quieter. Even at the early afternoon hour the sound of competing saloons, cat-calls, shouts and the whistles of men filled the air.
The group entered a darkened building, Rockwell ordered a bottle of cheap rye for the group. Michael passed on the liquor instead ordering a cup of coffee for himself.
Rockwell leaned forward, raising his glass. “it was a good drive gentlemen, the cows made it, we made it, here is to success.”
The others raised their drinks. Michael followed suit.
The conversation turned to supplies, the fact they were glad the drive was over, and the long trip home.
Michael looked up to see the shadows lengthening into early evening outside, and stood.
“I need to get goin’, I gotta wire money afore the bank closes.”
Rockwell stood with him.
“You headed out with us in the mornin’?” The older cowboy asked.
Michael shook his head, “I’ve got supplies ta get.” He paused. “But if yer headed home. Would ya take Tick?”
Rockwell froze just inside the saloon doors.
“Yer sure?”
Michael shook his head. “I can’t be draggin’ him all over town. I’ll catch up in a couple of days.”
Rockwell shrugged. “Well, suit yerself.”
They stepped out on the boardwalk together, and Michael called to Tick. The dog jumped up from where he’d been waiting by Michael’s mare and walked over with a wagging tail and outstretched tongue.
Michael knelt and rubbed the dog’s ears. “Yer goin’ home boy.”
Tick’s mouth closed at the word home. He tilted his head and whined.
Michael smiled sadly, “Go home, I need ya lookin’ after Sadie.”
The dog whined once again, and Michael signaled him with the low whistle for home. Tick tucked his tail and Rockwell tapped his thigh,
“Come on, Tick.”
The dog turned to obey, then looked back and Michael, who signaled once more.”
Tick lowered his head. Before Rockwell slipped a rope through the dog’s collar.
Michael watched Rockwell pull Tick behind him. The dog was not happy. Neither was his owner. There was no sense in dragging the hound through the streets of Denver.
“I’ll catch up,” Michael said under his breath.
Tick turned to look at him once more before a tug on the lead rope from Rockwell pulled him forward.
Michael turned. The shadows had already grown longer. He would be rushing to get to the bank now.
He headed south along Market Street, passing taverns, saloons, gambling halls, coffeehouses, and the sort of establishments that, now that he was married, held no interest for him. The thought of Sadie tugged at him. He would need to send her a telegram, tell her he would miss the six weeks he had promised, that he was sorry, and that he would make it up to her. Then he would have to keep that promise by finding something worthy of taking home.
Since he was in a hurry, Michael stopped a man on the boardwalk.
“Excuse me. Do ya live here in Denver?”
The man eyed him, then nodded slowly.
“What’s the quickest way ta Seventeenth Street?”
The man hiccupped, then shrugged.
“Cut through the bottoms, I reckon. Right through the rail yard. Best chance ya got.”
Michael nodded, thumbing the brim of his hat.
“Much obliged.”
The man tipped his own hat and continued in the opposite direction.
The rail yard lay downhill from Market Street, crowded with freight cars, locomotives, and coal tenders. The shadows were deeper here, and the place felt like a different world from the noise and bustle above.
Gravel crunched beneath Michael’s boots as he passed between two coal cars.
He had just rounded the corner.
“Hands up where we can see ‘em.”
Michael froze.
“Turn around. Nice and slow.”
He did, the money bag still clutched in one hand.
Two men stood with bandanas pulled over their faces and pistols leveled at his chest.
“Give us the money,” one of them said. “Whatever valuables you got. We’ll let you walk.”
At first Michael’s grip tightened on the money bag. This was his ticket home, the only way he could keep the ranch.
Then the younger gunman flinched, jerking his pistol toward Michael.
Michael didn’t think.
The money bag dropped from his hand with a clank as his own hand went with it.
“He’s reaching!” the older robber shouted.
Flame burst from the younger man’s muzzle. The bullet went wild richocheting off a railcar further up the track.
Michael’s Colt cleared leather.
His shot echoed through the rail yard. The younger man clutched at his chest.
The older robber fired.
Michael ducked instinctively. The ball slammed into the wooden side of the coal tender behind him.
His trigger finger squeezed again. The older man rocked backward, striking the railcar before crumpling to the ground.
Ringing swallowed every other sound.
That’s when Michael saw him.
A third man burst from the shadows, snatched up the money bag, and disappeared into the darkness.
Michael stood frozen, his head feeling as though it were underwater. Somewhere in the distance a whistle shrilled. He looked up just in time to see a Denver police officer sprinting toward him.
Smoke curled from the muzzle of Michael’s Colt. He stood frozen, blinking, his heart hammering against his ribs. He felt sick. Not because he had shot the men. Because someone had taken the money.
A hand seized his arm.
Michael jerked, dropping the Colt into the gravel.
A Denver police officer motioned toward the two men lying motionless, blood pooling beneath them in the fading light. The officer said something, but all Michael heard was the ringing. He blinked hard until the words finally broke through.
“They were trying to rob me,” Michael said.
The officer frowned.
“Son, this don’t look good for you. Don’t look good at all.”
“I’m telling ya, they were trying to rob me.”
“Rob you of what?”
Michael looked down.
The money bag was gone.
“There was a third man.”
The officer studied him for a long moment.
“Son, I think you’d best come with me.”
“Hold there. I saw the whole thing.”
The deep voice rolled out from between the tracks.
A man stepped into the lantern light beside a giant dressed in black. His waistcoat was finely tailored, his bowler hat spotless, and his polished shoes looked untouched by the grime of the rail yard.
The officer straightened.
“Mr. Peterson. You saw it?”
Peterson dipped his head and lifted the gold-knobbed cane in his hand, pointing it toward Michael.
“I did. Those two got the jump on the young fellow. There was a third as well. He grabbed the money and ran while these two kept his attention.”
The officer glanced toward the darkness where the thief had disappeared.
Peterson continued.
“I’ve seen lawmen slower on the draw. This young man would be lying there otherwise.”
Michael wasn’t entirely sure he’d heard him correctly. His ears still rang, and his hands had begun to tremble.
The officer sighed and crouched beside the dead men, pulling the bandanas from their faces.
“Well, I’ll be.”
He looked up at Peterson.
“One of these fellas has a wanted notice hanging in the office.”
He looked back down and shook his head.
“Ten-dollar reward... but it was for bringing him in alive.”
“Shame,” Peterson said. “I will however provide a statement to the proper authorities, this man is innocent.”
The officer nodded, then turned back to Michael. “Come on, son, I’ll get your statement at the station.
~
Michael entered the brick building which had DENVER CITY HALL carved into the stone above the doorway. A clock ticked steadily on the wall. Wooden desks filled the room.
The officer sighed.
“Well, I reckon I’d best get your statement tonight. You’re claiming self-defense. We’ll see what Mr. Peterson has to say. If he corroborates your story, you’re one lucky fella to have had a witness.”
Lucky.
The word did not fit what Michael was feeling.
He swallowed.
“Could I trouble ya for some water?”
The officer glanced at him, then called across the room.
“McKenzie! Get our guest a cup of water.”
The younger officer looked up from his desk, rolled his eyes, and stood with an exaggerated sigh before disappearing into the back.
Peterson settled into a chair, pulled a legal pad from his satchel, and dipped his pen into an inkwell.
“Take it from the top, son.”
Michael told them about arriving at the stockyards that morning, boarding his mare, and selling his cattle.
“Seventy-six dollars.”
His hand pressed into the edge of the desk.
He still couldn’t believe it was gone.
“It was everything I had. It was supposed ta save the ranch.”
The officer’s lips pressed into a thin line.
“And these two got the jump on you down in the Bottoms?”
Michael nodded, replaying it again.
“Yeah. Told me to put my hands up... turn around slow. I didn’t want to give ‘em the money, so I hesitated, and then...” He swallowed. “That’s when the gun went off.”
Almost as if on cue, McKenzie set a cup of water on the desk.
Michael looked up.
“Thank ya.”
The young officer only grunted before returning to his desk.
Michael took a long drink.
“I didn’t think. I just pulled my Colt. Same thing I’ve done a thousand times at home.”
The officer frowned.
“That’s the part I don’t understand. You’re a rancher, but you’re that fast?”
Michael shrugged.
“Been practicin’ since I was fifteen... maybe sixteen. My ma had an old mirror. I’d set it on a fence post and practice my draw, linin’ up the sights. Never fired. Just practiced.”
He looked down at his hands.
“I didn’t think.”
The officer continued writing while asking another question or two, but Michael barely heard him. All he could see was the money bag disappearing into the darkness.
Finally the officer leaned back.
Michael looked at him.
“What am I gonna do?”
The officer spread his hands.
“I don’t rightly know, son. If you got a look at the third fellow, we’ll put out his description. Beyond that...”
Michael lowered his eyes. There wasn’t much hope.
The officer stood.
“Sit tight. I’m gonna get Mr. Peterson’s statement.”
Michael nodded and stared at a knot in the wooden desk that looked almost like an eye, replaying the robbery for the hundredth time, trying to understand how five weeks of work had vanished in the space of a heartbeat.
Peterson was gone for the next quarter hour. Michael watched the hands slowly rotate on the clock.
The bank’s gonna close soon.
The thought landed like a stone in a pond.
Michael blinked.
No.
There was no money to deposit. His hand tightened on the desk at the remembering.
Peterson finally returned.
The officer tapped his fingers against his thighs.
“Well, son, I reckon you ought to thank your lucky stars. Or, if you’re a praying man, visit a chapel tonight. Mr. Peterson is one of the wealthiest men in Denver, and he backed your story down to the smallest detail. If you’ve got a description of the third fellow, we’ll take it. Otherwise...” He spread his hands. “You’re free to go.”
Michael blinked.
“I... didn’t get a real good look.”
He rubbed a hand across his jaw, feeling dust settle into the beard beneath his fingers.
“Young. Thin. Real thin. Might’ve been barefoot. I think he was.”
The officer nodded.
“Not much to go on.”
Michael lowered his head.
“I understand. Thanks for your time.”
As he turned to leave, the officer cleared his throat.
“Oh. Mr. Peterson’s waiting outside. Says he’d like to buy you some dinner.”
Michael fingered the brim of his hat.
“Appreciate it.”
The officer nodded. “Have a good night, Mr. Vincent.”
Michael couldn’t help but find the word ironic, considering the events that had landed him in the police station in the first place. Still, he said nothing. He simply stepped outside into the fading Denver light.
A carriage rattled over the cobblestones. Peterson’s coach waited just beyond the curb. The broad-shouldered man dressed in black opened the coach door and motioned him inside.
Michael climbed in.
Peterson leaned forward.
“Young man, I’d like to buy you some dinner. You’ve had an unpleasant evening, and a fellow shouldn’t wander Denver’s streets hungry with empty pockets.”
He folded his hands over the head of his cane.
“Besides...” He smiled pleasantly. “I believe I may have a way to help your situation.”
Michael hesitated.
What could a railroad man possibly want with me?
As if answering for him, his stomach growled.
Peterson chuckled.
“There now. Never argue with your stomach, son. Let’s get a good meal in you. Then we’ll talk.”
Michael finally nodded.
“I’d be much obliged for the dinner.”
Peterson’s smile widened. He rapped the head of his cane once against the roof of the coach, and they lurched forward.
Michael looked out the window at the new electric lights lining the streets of Denver. Fascinating things, those were. He hated that he probably looked like one of the backwoods hillbillies his father used to joke about, staring at inventions Wyoming had yet to see, and probably wouldn’t, Michael figured, for another hundred years.
The coach rolled south over cobblestones, passing rows of brownstone houses as they entered a more respectable part of town.
It finally stopped along Colfax.
Across the street stood an eating establishment called The Merchant’s Table.
Peterson stepped down behind him and grinned.
“Ah, my favorite place to eat. Come along, young man.”
He paused.
“By the way, son, what’s your name?”
Michael blinked. It suddenly occurred to him that he knew Peterson’s name, but Peterson didn’t know his.
“Michael. Michael Vincent.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Vincent.” Peterson motioned toward the door. “Now, if you’ll follow me, I believe you’ll find the steak here cooked to perfection, the coffee hot and strong. Something I imagine you didn’t have much of on the trail. And let us hope the conversation proves beneficial to us both.”
Michael followed him inside.
Electric lights hadn’t found their way into the restaurant yet. Gas sconces still lined the walls, casting a warm glow over white tablecloths and polished cutlery. The room hummed with quiet conversation and the clink of ceramic against silver.
A man behind the counter looked up and smiled.
“Mr. Peterson. Dining with us this evening? Your usual table, sir?”
Peterson nodded.
“Yes. This young man is my guest” He turned to Michael pointing to a door. “You’ll find the washroom through there if you’d like to remove some road dust.”
Michael handed the maître ‘d his hat and rubbed his hands down dusty trousers. “I believe I would.”
A Pitcher in the room held steaming water. Michael poured it into the basin and splashed it on his face. If it would have been manly Michael could have cried. It felt like heaven. He worked a wetted comb through the grime in his beard and wet hands through his hair until he looked somewhat presentable. The change in the mirror was obvious. Michael felt human again. Mostly. He refused to let his mind settle on his actions in the railyard.
He finally reemerged from the washroom, nodding at Peterson. “Thank ya.”
The older man just smiled. “Anything for a guest.”
As they crossed the dining room, Michael noticed no fewer than five men tip their heads in greeting. It didn’t seem to matter whether they wore tailored coats or trail-worn work shirts. Everyone appeared to know Peterson.
They reached a quiet table in the back corner.
Peterson handed Michael the menu.
“Order whatever you’d like, son.”
Michael read it once.
Then again.
This time he wasn’t reading the meals.
He was reading the prices.
Peterson smiled knowingly.
“Don’t concern yourself with the cost. Order what sounds good after five weeks on the trail.”
Michael’s mouth watered despite himself.
“I’ll have the ribeye. And... the baked potato.”
“The large one?” the waiter asked.
Michael hesitated.
Peterson answered for him.
“The large one.”
“And coffee,” Michael added. “Hot.”
Peterson laughed softly.
“That’s the spirit. I’ll have the same.”
The waiter nodded and disappeared toward the kitchen.
As soon as they were alone, Peterson leaned forward.
“Now then, young man. About that job.”
Michael winced.
“I promised my wife I’d be home in six weeks.”
Peterson raised an eyebrow.
“And you strike me as a man who keeps his word.”
Michael looked down.
“I try to.”
He rubbed the back of his neck.
“I’m not going to make six weeks now, but...”
His voice faded.
Peterson clicked his tongue.
“Such a shame. All that hard work.”
He waved the thought away.
“But let’s not dwell on unpleasant things. If you need to send word home, I’d be happy to arrange a telegram.”
Michael looked up.
“I don’t much like owing people.”
Peterson chuckled.
“You misunderstand me, Mr. Vincent. It wouldn’t be a favor. It would simply be an advance on work I need done.”
He folded his hands.
“Now then. Do you have transportation?”
“My mare’s boarded at the stockyards.”
“Excellent. And a place to sleep tonight?”
Michael slowly shook his head.
“I see.”
Peterson nodded thoughtfully.
“So you need a bed, food in your belly, and word sent to your wife.”
Michael nodded once.
“The work will take four weeks. You could still be home before Christmas.”
Michael frowned.
“Sadie’s alone...”
“Of course she is.”
Peterson’s voice softened.
“I admire a man who thinks of his family first.”
He paused just long enough.
“I only wonder whether she’d rather have you home immediately... or home able to keep a roof over her head.”
The waiter returned and set two steaming cups of coffee before them.
Michael wrapped both hands around the mug, letting the warmth seep into his fingers.
Because that... was the truth of it.
He didn’t want to leave Sadie, but he couldn’t afford not to. He took a long drink of coffee before setting the cup carefully back into its saucer.
“All right, Mr. Peterson.”
He met the railroad man’s eyes.
“Tell me what you need me to do.”
If you are enjoying Michael’s journey, would you consider sharing it with others? Word of mouth is the best way for authors like me to grow.
What a wonderful turn of events that Michael had a witness, otherwise he would've ended up in jail most likely. Still, I find Mr. Peterson's presence—and generosity—fortuitous . . . perhaps too much so. 🤔
Good chapter. I like the gunfight. Virgil Earp's advice was draw slow, aim fast and John Wesley Hardin quoted him.