Judith Parr Simmons

Dry Gulch

Dry Gulchby

Judith Parr Simmons

Copyright © by Judith Parr Simmons 2006www.peacockpublishing.comPublished by Seniors Resource GuideDenver, Coloradowww.seniorsresourceguide.com

Design by Diane Hochevar, Let’s Get Graphic

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DEDICATION:I dedicate this book to my Stetson Family

in recognition of their vigorous influence in the West.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTSThanks to my brother, Wallace Stetson;

my husband, Tom Simmons; my brother-in-law, Dean Demoney for their most helpful suggestions.

Thanks go to my sister, Beverly LaVigne Ledbetter for her editing.

My gratitude and thanks to Karin Hall and Diane Hochevar for their electronic formatting, cover, and editing.

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Chapter 1

Old-time miner Cliff mumbled to himself while he was outside his shack brushing his burro, Betsy. “The dust is settlin’ down from that mean westerly. The sage and bramble and tumbleweed was a blowing far and wide as my eyes can see. Now it’s better.

“I hate those old, fierce winds! It stirs me up and unsettles me that somethin’ is up to put the bother in my mind. We need rain. We need it bad. We need it now or my creek’ll go dry on me!

“My old legs don’t want to haul water any further than I have to. It’s bad enough I get to start puttin’ up wood for fires for the winter just ‘round the corner.

“My bones feel the change. Nights are gettin’ cooler. The sun’s a takin’ shorter trips each day. Betsy knows it too. For an old burro I can see the restless in her too. A change is a comin’.”

Old Cliff continued to mutter to himself. “That dang old Douglas Foul Crook! I can’t trust people any more than I can throw ‘em, and their young-uns are more worse. Snooping and noseying and getting into things they’ve no business gettin’ into. Keep them worthless ruffians from Betsy and me and we’ll be the happier for it.

“Well, Betsy, old girl, I think tomorrow we’ll have to go to town and see if we can get a rain barrel. Time to start storing water ‘cause I think things are gonna get rough ‘fore they get better. I can trade some of my tin sheets out back for a barrel. We better make it two, ‘cause it’s time to start preparing. Got me three old water bags that the weasels ain’t gotten to – so I’ll always keep ‘em full. Don’t like the sounds of the winds. Don’t like the colors of the sun or the dry mountains yonder. Betsy, we have to put water away now ‘fore the creek goes. We’ll get some coffee, and tobaccy, sugar and flour too, and maybe another slab of bacon. If you’re a good girl and help me move that tin in the wagon, I’ll get carrots and sugar candy for you. Our teeth are still pretty good. The bags and barrels will keep us going ‘til the snows come.

“Dang old Douglas Foul Crook! Every time you think life is goin’ just fine, something comes along to change it. We’ll we got each other, old girl.” With that Betsy lifted her ears, rolled up her lips, and gave Cliff a big lick with her wet tongue and her flashing teeth. She knew they would always take care of each other. Cliff continued, “We got plenty of fixins’ and we’ll get water and wood put away to get ready to make it through the winter. You eat your grass and wildflowers. I’ll have me some beans and corn bread ‘fore dropping off. We’ve got a big day ahead of us tomorrow.

2

“Dang old Douglas Foul Crook! We better get some seeds in jars for next spring so I can go a plantin’ them. With this bad luck for water here at Dry Gulch, we can’t trust that it’ll all come back natural as usual. We’ll be okay, Betsy. We’re getting things all figured out on what to do. Good night, Betsy, old girl. We got a long day tomorrow.”

It’s reasonable to assume the world dislikes Cliff as much as he distrusts the world. But, the truth is, he does have his soft spots and he’s careful to hide them from others. He’s been done in – you guessed it – by a woman, but also by his nemesis, Douglas Foul Crook.

In time we’ll share his story about fickle love, but now for the serious matters at hand … let’s see what Douglas Foul Crook is doing. His real name is Douglas P. Stone and he has the land office in Central City. Words out he knows too much of what’s going on when folks go to the Assay Office – though the doings are supposed to be private affairs.

Douglas P. Stone paced back and forth in his little office as he alternated between cracking his knuckles and smoothing his mustache. “Got to figure out how to put the squeeze on Cliff Elder. We worked the papers on the homestead to foreclose after he couldn’t pay for his stake for ‘Old Fool’s Mine’ at Dry Gulch. I know there’s gold in them there hills, and I know he’s setting on a powder-keg find. He hasn’t struck it yet, but if I keep puttin’ the squeeze on, I’ll find a way to get at it yet.”

You get the picture now; what kind of troubles Cliff and Betsy may have yet to face, as they really are entering into troublin’ times at Dry Gulch.

Cliff hooked up the old wagon and hitched up Betsy to help pull the bundle of tin down the slope. They were both sweating, but they got the job done. Cliff muttered, “Dang the luck – some of the tin started to rust, but most of it’s okay. It should get enough for the barrels and some provisions.

“Don’t know how long I can hold out with just the tradin’ of things. I can’t let them know I’ve found some gold or that I found the mother lode. I’ll get to it when I get a way to turn some nuggets in for more provisions and dredges. Somethin’ tells me I can’t go down to Central City with my poke or worse things ‘ill happen. Betsy, we got to figure us out a way to leave this ridge and get down to Denver City where things are more private from snooping eyes. Should’ve gone there the first place to do the papers and things. Dang old Douglas Foul Crook! And now the creek’s a runnin’ dry.”

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Cliff got the tin on the wagon, checked his six shooter, then his chew, bag of oats for Betsy, a water bag, and jerky. “We’re all set, Betsy. Let’s go to town. Oops!” He grabbed his straw hat.

Off they went on a slow trek down Oh, My God Hill to Central City. It’s a place of action – lots of people scurrying and lots of noise – a place of danger for those who don’t know how to keep to themselves.

“Dang the old fools who waste their money in them saloons – deserve gettin’ killed when they’re drunk and show their poke for the likes of Douglas Foul Crook and those others who’re worthless and afraid of their own day’s labor. Really deserve it when they go with them loose women with rosy cheeks that are nothin’ but trouble.”

Betsy noticed the air getting hotter as they got closer to town and the sun reached its peak, but she was content to be walking and was glad to be with Cliff wherever they were. They dreaded the hike back up Oh, My God Hill though.

After a spell, “Thunk, thunk, thunk” went the wheel. Cliff yelled, “Dang the luck! Whoa, Betsy. We got a problem!” Cliff got down and surveyed the situation. “Dang rock broke the wheel and we was goin’ as slow as we could. Gotta find a piece of dead pine or scrub oak to fit the wheel to get us to the livery. Now we’ll never get back ‘fore sunset and we’ll have to stay somewhere the night.” Cliff pulled out the axe stored in the wagon and started to cut some wood and another piece to spare, just in case. Then he complained, “Dang axe flew off the handle! Now we’re in a real fix Betsy.”

While pondering how to handle this, Cliff saw dust as someone poked up the hill on a pinto. He muttered, “Oh, yippee – new plaid and new jeans – he won’t be able to help.” The stranger said, “Hi partner, old timer. Anything I can do to help you with?” Cliff responded, “I doubt it. You look like you can barely ride your horse.” The stranger answered, “Old timer, we’ve all got to start somewhere. Yep, I did just get here from the East – east of the Ohio – but I’ve got a ranch now on the other side of Idaho Springs, and I want to settle down and make it here in the West.”

Cliff thought, “Well, at least he’s willing to try his way, so he may have a chance.” But what Cliff said was, “Let’s see if you’re worth your salt. My axe has slipped off ‘fore I finished my job. What’s your name?”

The stranger answered, “I’m Bob. What’s yours, old man?”

Cliff quirked, “Quit calling me old man! I’m 48 and got a long way to go. My name’s Cliff.”

Bob got off his horse. His stallion, Dancer, and Betsy checked out each other to their satisfaction. Bob walked off the trail and got his new boots dusty and his pants burred, but he came back with some small, smooth stones and one large rock. Working together they used the small stones to serve as wedges while they pounded the axe back into the cradle-handle using the big rock. Then they used the axe to get the pieces of wood and put one piece into place for balancing the wagon wheel.

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Cliff felt very grateful, but just said, “You’re not totally worthless.”

Bob tipped his white Stetson and said, “Awe shucks. Thanks, old man – glad to be of help.”

Cliff grunted in disgust for the thank you’s and said, “Quit callin’ me old man!”

Bob got back on his horse, tipped his Stetson and said, “See ya, old man.”

Cliff and Betsy meandered into town without further incident while he thought about City Bob. “He’s a fresh one, but willing to help. He’s okay! Somehow a white cowboy hat feels more trustin’ than the black, but maybe it’s just superstition. Bein’ he’s from the East, he’s probably a book learner. Never had time to learn the letters myself. Just learned enough to write my name, though no one else knows it. I trusted Mabel to read the papers for me with Douglas Foul Crook, but he weaseled a way to get my folks’ homestead. Dang old Douglas Foul Crook!”