Trouble on the Wagon Train – Extended Epilogue

Three Years Later

Red sat at the table in the kitchen, finishing his coffee while holding his youngest son, less than a year old, with his left arm. Rowdy kept reaching for his cup, which made drinking difficult.

Randy, his oldest son, sat using his fingers to stir his scrambled eggs, often feeding some to Kaiser, who sat under the table wagging his tail. Bonney fed his two-year-old brother Roy mashed up sweet potatoes with a spoon. Wolfgang, sitting next to Red, had an amused look.

“I ain’t never getting married,” he said, looking from child to child. “Red, shoot me if I change my mind.”

“You’ll change your mind. And when you have children of your own, you’ll view them differently,” Red said as he finally managed to drink the last of his coffee. He glanced at Bonney. “Since you already breastfed Rowdy, I’m going to put the little rascal in his crib. I’ve got to head to Borger to take the wool we sheared last week to Willy at the general store.”

“Can I go?” Wolfgang asked.

Red looked at the boy. Hell, you couldn’t call him a boy anymore. He stood six foot two inches and had shoulders as wide as a steer. He wore a Boss of the Plains hat that Red had given him last Christmas. The kid looked like a young gunfighter, wearing the hat and a tied-down holster.

“Nope, you have to say and guard the family,” Red said. “And tend the flock with Kaiser. Move them around so they don’t over-graze. If you leave the flock, make Kaiser stay with them.”

Wolfgang looked disappointed but didn’t argue. “The sheep are more trouble than the Long Horns. They tend themselves.”

“Yes, but we make good money from the wool,” Red reminded Wolfgang.

“We need flour. And pick out a sack with a flower design,” Bonney said.

“Hard candy,” Randy called out.

“Yeah,” Wolfgang said. “A bag of hard candy if I got to stay home.”

“Duly noted,” Red said. He stood up and carried Rowdy down the hall to the first room on the right, his and Bonney’s bedroom. The hallway led to two more bedrooms, the first for Randy and Roy, the next for Wolfgang.

Red and Randy had built the stone-and-mortar house over the past three years, adding rooms as needed each year. Besides the three bedrooms, the house had a front room and a kitchen.

Rowdy cooed as Red laid him on the Indian blanket.

“Mommy will be in to feed you again soon, Rowdy,” Red said before returning to the kitchen.

“Red, you be careful. We’ve seen smoke signals lately. Something might have stirred the Apache up,” Bonney said.

“If I see any, I just outrun them. They can’t catch Wrangle,” Red said. “I’m more concerned about them raiding the valley.”

“Don’t worry, Old Man,” Wolfgang said. He stood and slapped his hand against the hilt of his Army Colt. “Ifin’ they come nosing around here, I’ll send them to their happy hunting grounds.”

“Don’t go shooting them without a powwow. They might want a lamb to feed their kids,” Red said. “The buffaloes are gone.”

“Good riddance,” Wolfgang said. “I ain’t forgetting that Injuns killed my family.”

“Yes, but those were Comanches. These are Apache,” Red said.

“Injuns are Injuns,” Wolfgang said firmly.

Shaking his head, Red walked over to Bonney and kissed her forehead. “Keep the kids—and that includes Wolf—in line until I return,” he said.

“I ain’t no kid,” Wolfgang said as Red walked out the door.

Wrangle whinnied when he spotted Red heading toward the corral. Like the house, the corral fence was stone and mortar. The mares and their two colts and two fillies, along with Midnight, milled around in excitement at seeing Red—the mares, hoping for oats, and Midnight, anxious for exercise. The colts and fillies picked up their mothers’ mood of excitement.

Red opened the gate and grabbed Wrangle’s bridle when the gelding approached. “I’ve got to take the wagon today. I’ll give you some exercise when I return from town,” he said as he let go of the horse and slapped him on the shoulder.

Midnight pawed the ground.

“Wolf will be out later,” Red told the stallion as though he understood what he was saying.

The four offspring of Midnight in the corral had his thoroughbred looks, as did the four two-year-olds and four three-year-olds that ranged free in the valley. All were solid black and stood sixteen hands.

I’ll have to decide which stallions I will keep for studs and geld the rest, Red thought as he finished saddling Wrangle. I need two stallions.

He walked past the corral to a small stone barn where he stored the wagon. Behind the barn lay another corral. The two mules, eager to get some exercise, walked over to the fence when Red approached.

It took almost twenty minutes to harness and attach the mules to the buckboard he used to ferry supplies from town. Then he loaded the bails of wool onto the wagon. When he finished, Red climbed into the wagon seat, slapped the reins against the mules’ backs, and drove down the lane toward the mouth of the canyon.

When he reached the barbed-wire fence across the mouth of the canyon, Red jumped off the wagon to open the gate. He walked the mules through the gate, closed it, and climbed back into the wagon. The stone building at the bottom of the incline leading from the mouth of the canyon had been built to satisfy the requirement that he build a dwelling on the land he had homestead. Primarily, Red used it as storage. He nor any of his family members had ever spent a night inside the building.

Beyond the stone storage building lay his official homestead. He and Wolfgang had strung a fence around the one-hundred-and-sixty-acre homestead. The barbed wire blocked anyone from entering the canyon. So far, no one had attempted to do so. Red had to open a second gate before he left the homestead. The fences gave him a sense of security.

The past three years had been blissful years for Red and Bonny. She had given birth to three sons since they had arrived in the valley. Although the first child was not technically his, Red claimed all three and treated them as equals.

He smiled, remembering how reluctant he had been to adopt Wolfgang when Chester had asked him to take on the orphaned boy after the Comanche attack on the wagon train. He couldn’t have accomplished what he had in the valley without Wolfgang’s help.

Red urged the mules into a slow trot. He didn’t want his trip to Borger to take all day. He made good time with the empty wagon, but returning to the valley with supplies would slow the mules to a walk.

Before noon, Red spotted the church steeple of Borger. He didn’t waste any time. Red steered the mules to the front of the general store, jumped down, and walked inside.

Several men lounged around in chairs the owner, Chet, provided for customers to sit, smoke, and jaw with one another.

“Howdy, Red,” a couple of the men that had homesteaded in the area called out when Red approached.

“Howdy,” Red said, touching his fingers to the brim of his hat. “If you fellows are finished with your work, you can come to my place. I’ve got plenty to do,” he said, hurrying past not needing or wanting a reply.

“You got a load of wool for me, Red?” Chet asked.

“Yup, a wagon full.”

“I’ll send my man out to unload it,” Chet said. He disappeared through a door behind the counter.

“Red,” one of the men sitting in the group called out. “There were five fellows in earlier asking about a man with red hair named Red Wheeler. That you?”

Red stiffened. He took a deep breath before turning to face the speaker.

“Trent, you know that’s my name,” he said. “Did the men say what they wanted with me?”

“They were hush-mouthed about their intent. However, from the assortment of pistols and knives they carried on their person. I would bet the pot that they meant you ill will,” Trent said. “You a criminal running from the law?”

“Nope, but got in trouble with a wealthy rancher in Missouri, and he’s out for revenge. He probably sent some bounty hunters searching for me. You fellows had best keep out of their way.”

“How about you, Red? Are you going to keep out of their way?” Trent asked.

Red looked Trent square in the eyes. “Nope, if they confront me, I’ll shoot them.”

Trent and the rest of the sodbusters looked shocked.

“You fellows remember my words if you ever decide to aid the bounty hunters,” Red said.

“Hmm, ah, Red, your wagon is unloaded,” Chet said, looking anxious.

“Why are you so nervous?” Red handed the owner the list of supplies he required.

“Well, the five strangers asked when you would come to town. And I told them that either today or tomorrow would bring in a shipment of wool. They said they would wait for you to show,” Chet said. “Sorry, I thought they might be pards of yours.”

“That’s fine, Chet. I never hold it against a man for telling the truth,” Red said. He nodded at the jar of hard candy. “Give me a sack of hard candy for the boys.”

“Sure will. It’ll take a while to gather the items on your list,” Chet said.

Red nodded. He glanced over at the men sitting in the chairs. “Do any of you know if Sheriff Mason is in the office?”

“I saw his horse at the jailhouse when I rode into town an hour ago,” Trent said.

“Thanks,” Red said. He nodded at Chet. “I’m going to mosey over to the sheriff’s office to jaw with Sheriff Mason.”

“I’ll have your supplies loaded. I’ll settle up with you when you get back, Red,” Chet said.

Red turned toward the door and paused momentarily to take off the hammer loops before he walked across the room with the sodbusters staring at him as though they had never seen him before.

I reckon my luck had to run low sooner or later, Red thought, stepping out of the general store. He reached down, lifted both pistols partway out of their holsters, and let them drop. If he got in a gunfight, he would rely on his right pearl-handled pistol. However, if needed, he wanted the left pistol free and ready to draw.

Red glanced down the street in the direction of the sheriff’s office. Nothing stirred in the street.

I bet that changes before I reach the sheriff’s office.

As he walked down the street, Red regretted not telling Sheriff Mason about his past. Ifin’ he had, he wouldn’t have to explain why five bounty hunters had arrived in Borger looking for him. Now, he doubted Sheriff Mason would believe him when he explained his situation.

A man stepped out from an alley on the right side of the street.

Red stopped.

Another man followed him out of the alley.

Hearing boots against porch planks, Red glanced to the side of the street.

Three men walked off the porch of the saddle shop, stepped into the street, and crossed over to join in the middle of the street with the other two men.

“Are you Marshal Red Wheeler?” asked a man wearing a bowler hat, with a bandolier slung across his chest.

“Yup, and you fellows had best hightail it back to the coyote hole you crawled out of,” Red said. “I ain’t in the mood to play nice with bounty hunters.”

“Thousand dollars is a lot of money to walk away from,” the man in the bowler hat said with a smirk.

“Since when does Satan take money? Because ifin’ you don’t turn tail, I’m sending the lot of you to Hell,” Red said.

“Maybe you weren’t good with your numbers in school, Marshal. There are five of us and one of you,” bowler hat said.

“I ain’t a Marshal no more. I’m a cold-blooded killer known as El Diablo Blanco, the White Devil, ifin’ your Spanish is rusty,” Red said.

The man in the bowler hat laughed. “Why would anyone call you that?”

“Because I killed over sixty Kiowa single-handed in a fight near the Santa Fe Trail,” Red said. “Add another fifteen Comanche who attacked the wagons, and you have your answer.”

“Rick, I heard about the White Devil. I didn’t know he was Red Wheeler, or I wouldn’t have agreed to this showdown,” a short man with a beard said.

“Shut it, Larry. Anyone can claim to be anybody. It don’t make it true.”

“It is true,” Red said. “Now let me return to my homestead, and you’ll all live to see another sunrise. Make a play, and the town is the end of the line for you all.”

“Nay,” Rick said and reached for his Schofield pistol. The man’s hand didn’t touch the hilt of his pistol before a shot rang out, followed by two more. Three of the bounty hunters staggered and fell to the dirt.

Red dove to the ground and rolled as the remaining two bounty hunters managed to draw their pistol and fire. The bullet dinged on the spot where Red had landed. However, he had rolled to the right. Red fired twice before the remaining pair of bounty hunters could squeeze off another shot.

One of the standing bounty hunters fell backward and hit the ground with a thump. The other one grabbed his chest and bent double before meeting the ground face-first.

Red stood and walked toward the bounty hunters. Rick, the man wearing the bowler hat, managed to rise to his knees.

“You are a devil,” he mumbled before his eyes rolled back and he fell face-first on the ground.

Seeing a man hurrying toward him out of the corner of his eye, Red turned to face the newcomer.

Sheriff Mason.

Red relaxed a little but kept his left hand on the hilt of his spare Army Colt.

“I saw the whole thing. The man in the bowler hat reached for his pistol first. Hmm, didn’t do him any good, did it,” Sheriff Mason said. “I knew they were looking for you, Red, but they didn’t say why. Do you want to enlighten me with the facts?”

“A friend killed a wealthy rancher’s son in Independence, Missouri. The rancher wanted revenge and put a reward on our heads. The wanted poster is illegal. If you want evidence of what I’ve told you is true, wire the sheriff in Independence, Missouri.”

“I will, Red. But how in blazes can a man draw a pistol so fast as you did? I didn’t even see your hand move,” Sheriff Mason said.

“It’s a curse, Sheriff Mason. Four years ago, I gave up my job as marshal in Cripple Creek, Missouri, because men kept coming to town to test their speed with a pistol against me. I got tired of sending them to boot hill. I was hoping to outrun my reputation here in Texas. But men will search long and hard for a chance to make a decent bounty,” Red said.

“Yup, you hit the nail on the head,” Sheriff Mason said, shaking his head.

“Sheriff, if you don’t mind, I’m going to settle up with Chet at the general store and head home,” Red said.

“Yeah, go on back home. I know where to find you ifin’ I need to ask more questions,” Sheriff Mason said.

“Thanks,” Red said, turned, and headed to the general store.

Damn, I hope that was the last of the bounty hunters I’ll have to face, he thought as he walked into the store.

The men sitting when Red left the store were standing by the door. They gave Red a wide berth when he entered. No one uttered a word.

Chet held out some greenbacks as Red approached the counter. “Here’s what I owe you, Red. And an itemized bill. You want to go over it?” he said, sounding nervous.

“Nope, I trust you,” Red said, taking the money. He touched his fingers to his hat, turned, and walked toward the door. “Gentlemen, have a nice evening,” he said before leaving the store.

Red felt the burden of the men he had killed as he rode out of town. He dreaded telling Bonney about the gunfight, but she needed to know. After he had turned off the trail running parallel to the Rita Blanca and ridden for two miles along the wagon trail to the Eagle Canyon, Red pulled on the reins and stopped the wagon.

Beside the road sat an old Apache with his head down.

“You all right, pard?” Red asked.

“The chief exiled me from the tribe. He said I had betrayed the tribe by working as a scout for the army. He said I was getting old and couldn’t contribute to the tribe anymore,” the old Indian said, raising his head and looking up at Red. “If you want to shoot me, do it. I have no tribe, no people; I am a ghost.”

Red shook his head. “No, I’ve killed enough men today. And you look real to me. Hop in the wagon. I have a homestead with a flock of sheep that needs a shepherd. If you are interested in the job, it’s yours.”

“I like sheep,” the old Indian said. “My name is Tracker. I got it when I worked as a scout for the army before they said I was too old. I don’t see as well as I did,” he explained as he stood.

The old Indian didn’t wobble as he walked over to the wagon. He started to climb in the back, but Red patted the seat.

“No, ride up front with me. We can jaw a bit,” Red said, reaching under the seat and pulling out a canteen. “Here’s some water if you’re thirsty.”

The old man grabbed the canteen and fumbled with the top before unscrewing it. He drank greedily.

“You were only two miles from the Rita Blanca River,” Red said when the old man returned the canteen.

“I had decided to die before you came along,” the old man said.

“I’m glad you didn’t. My flock of sheep needs you,” Red said.

Tracker smiled.

When the wagon drew in sight of the stone storage building, Red saw Wolfgang riding toward him to open the gate to the homestead.

“Tracker, the boy on the black stallion is Wolf. Comanches killed his family. He hates Injuns,” Red said as the wagon pulled near the gate.

“The boy has a right to hate,” Tracker said.

“Who have you got there, Red?” Wolfgang asked as his hand dropped to the hilt of his pistol.

“This is Tracker. I hired him to shepherd the sheep,” Red said. He nodded at Wolfgang. “Tracker, meet Wolf.”

Tracker nodded.

“You hired an Injun?” Wolfgang demanded.

“Yup, his tribe exiled him. He had decided to die. We need him. So, I offered him a job. Or would you like to work the sheep every day, Wolf?” Red said as he slapped the reins against the mules’ back and drove through the gate.

Wolf closed the gate without answering. He mounted Midnight and rode ahead to open the gate to the mouth of the canyon.

When Red drove the wagon past the storage building, he pointed at it. “We’ll clean it up, and you can use it as your sleeping quarters,” Red said.

Tracker nodded.

Wolfgang held the gate open but didn’t speak as Red drove through. Again, he mounted Midnight and followed the wagon to the house.

“You’re home, Tracker. Come in and meet my wife and children,” Red said.

“Why are you kind to an old Apache?” Tracker said.

“I’ve killed a lot of Injuns. I need to save one,” Red said.

“You are the one they call El Diablo Blanco,” Tracker said.

“Yes.”

Tracker didn’t say anything as he climbed off the wagon.

“Wolf, unload the wagon and bring in the supplies that belong in the house. I’ll help unload the rest after supper,” Red said.

Wolfgang nodded but didn’t speak.

Bonney looked surprised when Red walked through the door with Tracker.

Randy ran up to Tracker. “Are you an Injun?”

“Yes, a friendly one,” Tracker said.

“Bonney, I hired Tracker to care for the sheep,” Red said. “Tracker, this is my wife, Bonney.”

“My tribe exiled me hoping I would die, Miss Bonney. But your husband decided it wasn’t my time,” Tracker said.

“I’m glad to have you here, Tracker. Take a seat at the table; supper is almost ready,” Bonney said, holding Rowdy on her hip.

“Daddy,” Roy said, holding his hand up for Red to pick him up.

Randy climbed up and straddled Tracker’s knee as soon as the old Apache sat down.

Bonney glanced over at Red, who shrugged.

“Ride me like a horsey,” Randy said.

Tracker looked at Red, confused.

“He wants you to bounce your leg up and down,” Red said.

The old Apache smiled and moved his leg up and down. Randy squealed in delight.

The door opened, and Wolfgang walked in carrying a sack of flour over his shoulder.

“Oh, what a nice pattern for a dress,” Bonney said. She pointed to the corner of the kitchen. “Put it over there, Wolf, and then have a seat at the table.”

When Wolfgang walked past Red, he stopped and sniffed.

“I smell gunpowder! What happened, Red? Did you get into a gunfight?”

He grimaced.

“Honey, what happened in town?” Bonney demanded and walked over to stand next to Red while she waited for him to answer.

He took a deep breath.

“Five bounty hunters were waiting for me in Borger.”

“Red!” Bonney said.

“What happened?” Wolfgang asked.

Red shrugged, “I killed them.”

“All five?” Bonney asked.

“They were slow,” Red said, not meeting his wife’s eyes.

“You should not be surprised, Miss Bonney,” the old Apache said. “Your husband, he is El Diablo Blanco!”

Wolfgang eyed Tracker. “You know he is El Diablo Blanco, yet you sit at his table.”

“He gave me a reason to live. What a man does in his past doesn’t say who he will be in the future,” Tracker said.

“Sit, Wolf,” Bonney said as she walked over with a platter of biscuits.

Wolfgang looked around. The only empty chair was the one next to Tracker.

“My teeth are dull. I don’t hurt when I bite,” Tracker said.

Red laughed. Wolfgang snorted as he took the seat.

“Here, Red, hold your youngest so I can serve supper,” Bonney said, putting Rowdy in Red’s arms. “We will talk about your gunfight in Borger later,” she said before returning to the stove.

Wolfgang snickered as he wagged a finger at Red.

THE END

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