The Taylor County War

  Western Fictioneers Presents:

  WOLF CREEK: The Taylor County War

  By Ford Fargo

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright © 2013 by Western Fictioneers

  Cover design by L. J. Washburn

  Cover painting: When Cowboys Get in Trouble by Charles Russell (public domain)

  Western Fictioneers logo design by

  Jennifer Smith-Mayo

  Smashwords Licensing Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with other people, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this ebook without purchasing it and it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

  Wolf Creek: The Taylor County War is a work of fiction. Though actual locations may be mentioned, they are used in a fictitious manner and the events and occurrences were invented in the mind and imagination of the author except for the inclusion of actual historical facts. Similarities of characters or names used within to any person – past, present, or future – are coincidental except where actual historical characters are purposely interwoven.

  Visit our website at www.westernfictioneers.com

  Beneath the mask, Ford Fargo is not one but a posse of America's leading western authors who have pooled their talents to create a series of rip-snortin', old fashioned sagebrush sagas. Saddle up. Read ‘em Cowboy! These are the legends of Wolf Creek.

  THE WRITERS OF WOLF CREEK, AND THEIR CHARACTERS

  Bill Crider - Cora Sloane, schoolmarm

  Phil Dunlap - Rattlesnake Jake, bounty hunter

  Wayne Dundee – Seamus O’Connor, deputy marshal

  James J. Griffin - Bill Torrance, owner of the livery stable

  Jerry Guin - Deputy Marshal Quint Croy

  Douglas Hirt - Marcus Sublette, schoolteacher and headmaster

  L. J. Martin - Angus “Spike” Sweeney, blacksmith

  Matthew P. Mayo - Rupert "Rupe" Tingley, town drunk

  Kerry Newcomb - James Reginald de Courcey, artist with a secret

  Cheryl Pierson - Derrick McCain, farmer

  Robert J. Randisi - Dave Benteen, gunsmith

  James Reasoner - G.W. Satterlee, county sheriff

  Frank Roderus - John Hix, barber

  Troy D. Smith - Charley Blackfeather, scout; Sam Gardner, town marshal

  Clay More - Logan Munro, town doctor

  Chuck Tyrell - Billy Below, young cowboy; Sam Jones, gambler

  Jackson Lowry - Wilson “Wil” Marsh, photographer

  L. J. Washburn - Ira Breedlove, owner of the Wolf’s Den Saloon

  Matthew Pizzolato - Wesley Quaid, drifter

  THE WOLF CREEK SERIES:

  Book 1 Bloody Trail

  Book 2 Kiowa Vengeance

  Book 3 Murder in Dogleg City

  Book 4 The Taylor County War

  Book 5 Showdown at Demon’s Drop

  Book 6 Hell on the Prairie

  Appearing as Ford Fargo in this episode:

  Douglas Hirt (Marcus Sublette)- Chapter 1

  Chuck Tyrell (Billy Below)- Chapter 2

  Clay More (Dr. Logan Munro)- Chapter 3

  Troy D. Smith (Sam Gardner) - Chapter 4

  Matthew Pizzolato (Wes Quaid) – Chapter 5

  James Reasoner (G.W. Satterlee)- Chapter 6

  Troy D. Smith - epilogue

  INTRODUCTION

  In Wolf Creek, everyone has a secret.

  That includes our author, Ford Fargo—but we have decided to make his identity an open secret. Ford Fargo is the “house name” of Western Fictioneers—the only professional writers’ organization devoted exclusively to the traditional western, and which includes many of the top names working in the genre today.

  Wolf Creek is our playground.

  It is a fictional town in 1871 Kansas. Each WF member participating in our project has created his or her own “main character,” and each chapter in every volume of our series will be primarily written by a different writer, with their own townsperson serving as the principal point-of-view character for that chapter (or two, sometimes.) It will be sort of like a television series with a large ensemble cast; it will be like one of those Massive Multi-player Role-playing Games you can immerse yourself in online. And it is like nothing that has ever been done in the western genre before.

  You can explore our town and its citizens at our website if you wish:

  http://wolfcreekkansas.yolasite.com/

  Or you can simply turn this page, and step into the dusty streets of Wolf Creek.

  Just be careful. It’s a nice place to visit, but you wouldn’t want to die there.

  Troy D. Smith

  President, Western Fictioneers

  Wolf Creek series editor

  CHAPTER ONE

  Marcus Sublette glanced up at the schoolhouse clock, startled to discover it was almost time for class to begin. He’d let time get away from him again. Usually Miss Sloane was here to help with the classroom chores, but this morning she was attending a committee meeting for the new Haselton Memorial Library.

  The voices of children playing in the school yard spurred him on to quickly finish cleaning the last lamp chimney and then fill the bowl with oil, setting it back in place in the wall stanchion.

  He snatched the bell off his desk, gripping the clapper, opened the door to the warm, early fall morning, and rang assembly.

  The children stopped their play and scampered over, forming a line at the doorstep to make their manners.

  One after the other the children made their manners and went to their seats. Marcus nodded his acceptance of the polite bows made by the Li boys: Li Xiao, Li Lin, and Li—Marcus glanced about. They were one Li short. “Where’s Li Wei?”

  Li Xiao held out a piece of paper. Marcus unfolded it, glanced at the words written in a simple script, and looked back at Li Xiao. “I understand that, with Li Wei being the eldest son, his help is important at the laundry works, but his education is important also. Please advise your mother that I expect to see Li Wei in class tomorrow.”

  The Li boys hurried to their seats, leaving only the three older boys, who were always the last to enter. It was plain they were growing bored with their lessons, anxious to be out in the world of adults. Of the three, Frank Miller, the widowed seamstress’s son, showed the least concern about his lessons. How did one stimulate their interest in learning?

  Twelve-year-old Ethan Hartman, son of rancher John Hartman, who owned the Lazy H, made a theatrical bow and grinned. “Howdy, prefessor.”

  “That’s professor, and howdy to you, Mr. Hartman.” He put up with Ethan’s brashness, so long as it didn’t get out of hand. Discipline taken to extremes sparked rebellion.

  Obie Wilkins gave a quick, short bow; proper and respectful. “Wonderful day, Mr. Sublette, ain’t it?” He struggled to hide a grin.

  Obie was pushing for a reaction. Marcus didn’t intend to play the lad’s game. “Yes, Mr. Wilkins, a splendid day indeed it is.”

  Obie was a quiet, polite boy whose home life left much to be desired. His father drank too much and his mother mothered him too much. Obie took the desk next Ethan in the back row.

  Bringing up the end of the line, his head bent toward the ground, Frank Miller gave a quick bow and mumbled. “Morning, Mr. Sublette.”

  “And to you, Mr. Miller.”

  The boy scooted past, but Marcus caught his shirt sleeve and lifted his chin. “My, my. I must say, that is a most impressive shiner, Mr. Miller. Likely the finest black eye I’ve seen in quite a number of years.”

  Frank hal
f grinned. “Yes, sir. You’re probably right.”

  “Hurt?”

  “No.”

  “Hum. What does the Bible says about lying?”

  Frank winced. “Well, maybe a little.”

  “I suspect so. You see, I used to get those all the time. Only, mine were always upon the right eye.”

  Frank gave him a skeptical look. “How’d’ya manage that?”

  Marcus smiled. “You might say it was job related.”

  Frank didn’t know what to think, and that was just as well. Keeping students a little off balance gave the teacher an advantage. “And to whom do you owe it?”

  He looked away. “Nate Huffington.”

  Marcus recalled Mr. Huffington; a promising student until he turned fourteen last year and dropped out of school to apprentice with Joseph Nash, the carpenter. “How did Mr. Huffington fare?”

  A sparkle brightened Frank’s gray eyes. “Busted his nose and knocked him into the trough out front of the livery.” He grinned. “Last I saw, he was sputtering for breath while Mr. Torr — err, I mean Mr. Tolliver fished him out.”

  Marcus tried not to smile, which would only encourage the youth. He said sternly. “Fighting is not the way to settle a difference, Mr. Miller. Especially with someone older and bigger than yourself.”

  “Only by a year. And he’s not either bigger’n me.”

  “Regardless, there are other ways.”

  “Grandpa says I’m the man of the house now, and I gotta protect my ma.”

  “Oh? Did Mr. Huffington threaten your mother?”

  “He –he called her a name.”

  That did put a different light on the matter. “I see. I won’t ask . . .”

  “Said only a dry sow would marry a stink’n Johnny Reb razorback.” Frank’s mouth screwed tight and his face reddened.

  “A stink’n Johnny Reb razorback!” Marcus’s spine stiffened. “In that case, I hope you gave Mr. Huffington two black eyes.”

  Frank looked for a moment as if he was going to burst into tears. Instead, he burst into laughter and the two of them went into the schoolhouse.

  ***

  “Oral hygiene,” Dr. Cantrell growled, “has become the bane of my existence. It will ruin me, I tell you, John. The very devastation of my livelihood! I haven’t had but three customers all week. It’s enough to drive a man to drink.”

  “That’s a short ride for you, Doc.” John Hix jockeyed the glistening razor around Dr. Cantrell’s sharp chin. “By your breath, I say you’ve already begun the trip.”

  Jefferson Cantrell laughed. “Never touch the stuff until the sun’s over the yardarm.”

  “Which is about seven of the clock in these parts. Now, stop wiggling.”

  Hix scraped the cold blade over the dentist’s throat. “Been meanin’ to ask,” the barber said. “Cantrell sounds a lot like Quantrill –no offense intended –you ever notice that?”

  “A very unfortunate coincidence, I assure you,” Cantrell said. “The man was a menace and a disgrace.”

  The blade pressed more sharply against his throat, and Hix leaned closer. The dentist seemed not to notice.

  Cantrell huffed. “In the old days I’d have performed eight extractions by Wednesday, and grounded at least that many cavities clean — ouch!” He put a finger to his cheek and looked at a smear of blood mixed with shaving soap.

  “Warned you. Next time it’s liable to be an ear lobe. Or a slice of cheek.”

  “You did that on purpose.” He waited for Hix to deny it, but the barber had gone strangely silent, the blade in his hand motionless. Cantrell looked up. Hix’s eyes were cold and empty ... staring. Cantrell slanted his view at the gleaming razor poised near his throat. “Err, careful with that thing, John. John?”

  “Hum?” Hix sounded distracted. Those disturbing eyes were focused someplace else, as if mesmerized by something.

  Although he’d known John Hix for almost a year, Cantrell could honestly say he didn’t really know the man. “What’s wrong, John?” Cantrell turned to see what had caught John’s attention in the window. A freight wagon had come to a stop and two men were climbing down off the high seat. Their boots thumped the boardwalk and the bell above the barber shop door jangled.

  They were dressed casually: bowler hats, sack coats and woolen trousers. Neither man looked like they needed their hair cut or their faces shaved.

  Hix’s haunting eyes followed them in and stopped them in their tracks like a bumper post at the end of a line.

  “Good morning,” one of the men said.

  The spell broke. John Hix took in a breath and smiled amiably. “Take a seat and I’ll be with you directly.”

  “We’re not here for a haircut,” the other said. “Just a bit of information.”

  The first man smiled. “The local barber is better than Western Union.”

  John Hix cocked his head. “What sort of information you gents looking for?”

  The second fellow, taller than his friend, had a lean, handsome, sunburned face, and spoke with a pronounced lisp. “We’re told there’s a fellow here in Wolf Creek who buys bones.”

  “Old bones,” the other added.

  “We’re told he pays cash for good ones.”

  Cantrell expelled a breath of relief when Hix lowered the razor and began casually stroking it on the leather strop. His eyes didn’t warm any, but his voice was easy. “The man you want is our head schoolmaster. Name’s Marcus Sublette.”

  “Wonderful,” the taller man said. “Where might we find him?”

  “At the school, of course.” Hix’s voice held mild sarcasm. “First and Lincoln. Two blocks north, left at the bakery. What kind of bones you got?”

  “I’ll show you.” They all went outside, Cantrell half shaved and still wearing the striped cape. The men threw back a canvas cover and Cantrell and Hix leaned forward. It was a pile of bones, sure enough. To the dentist, they looked rather unremarkable, other than that some of them were fairly large. Most were gray and crumbly. A few of them were almost shiny, having a dark red hue.

  “That was a mighty big cow,” Cantrell observed.

  “Yep. About what we figured . . . at first,” the shorter man said.

  “Where’d you find ’em?” Hix fished amongst the pile, coming up with something like a cat’s claw, only about five times larger.

  The shorter man said, “Henderson and me are surveying a spur line north of here for the new railroad. We spied bones sticking up out of the ground. We got to digging around, and guess what came up?” He lifted a jawbone that even Samson of old would have had a mighty hard time wielding against those Philistines. The few teeth still attached were nearly five inches long.

  John Hix whistled. “If that’s a cow, I’m going to start eating vegetables.”

  The men laughed. “Maybe your Mr. Sublette will know what they are?”

  Cantrell dragged a finger along a reddish leg bone the size of his thigh. It felt like no bone he’d ever touched. “These are stone.”

  “Curious stuff, heh?” Henderson pulled the canvas back over the pile. “We’ll go see what the schoolmaster has to say about them.”

  Hix said, “Best time is about ten of the clock when the children are on recess. Or noon. That’s when him and Miss Sloane take their lunch.”

  “We can wait,” Henderson said.

  “Thank you sir,” the shorter one said. “I could do with some breakfast while we wait.”

  Cantrell pointed at the building shouldered up against the barber shop. “Ma’s Cafe is the best place in town for breakfast.”

  They thanked him. As they started for Ma’s front door, the little barber’s eyes fixed upon the taller of the two as if measuring the man somehow.

  Cantrell wondered briefly about that until he heard Hix mumble, “Red leg.” Hix was only thinking about the reddish stone leg bone they’d just seen.

  ***

  Marcus Sublette began class in the usual manner, even though Miss Sloane had not yet return
ed from her early morning meeting with the library committee. As soon as they’d completed the pledge to the flag and an opening prayer, Mary Stevens’ hand shot up in the air.

  “Yes, Miss Stevens?”

  She stood at the side of her desk. “Mr. Sublette, how come Miss Sloane isn’t here?”

  “Miss Sloane had an important library committee meeting to attend to this morning.”

  They chatted a bit about the new library, and then it was time to get down to work.

  “When we have completed our morning tasks, after first recess,” Marcus told them, “I have a few interesting exhibits that we shall examine.”

  The exhibits were the three dinosaur skulls he had yet to reveal. They were from fairly common extinct varieties of lizards. Two of them, a lystrosaurus and an amphibamus, he’d borrowed earlier this summer while visiting his college professor back in Pennsylvania. Professor Cope was not in the habit of lending out specimens to just anyone, and Marcus felt privileged that the famous paleontologist would entrust them to him.

  The third skull was one he himself had collected on Mr. Breedlove’s ranch, the T-Bar-B. It was a fine pterosaur specimen, but alas, one belonging to a species recently described and named . . . named by none other than that scoundrel, Professor Marsh.

  Marcus frowned at the unkind thought. In truth, he’d never met Professor Marsh. The problem was, both Marsh and Cope were arch competitors in a very small field, and because Professor Cope had been his instructor at Haverford College, Marcus had been compelled to take sides.