A Treacherous Journey West – Extended Epilogue

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TEN YEARS LATER

Charles “Lucky” Contrell relaxed at his desk smoking a cigar. He had very little business to take care of this day, but he wandered into his office and sat down just because it was his routine. In a few minutes, he expected five-year-old Lark to come in and climb over him and the desk. It was almost a daily occurrence, and one he immensely enjoyed.

Lark was his and Selma’s middle daughter, and perhaps the most active. She was always scampering somewhere. He had almost forgotten her real name, which was Rose Laurel Contrell. But the young child had seen a flock of larks on the ranch when she was three years old and had loved them, and tried to imitate their coos. She became infatuated with them, and a short time after her parents, two brothers, and one sister began calling her Lark.

She shared many traits with her mother, but her skin was a tad darker and her hair a tad lighter. She also shared with Selma her intelligence and her joyous laughter and optimistic outlook. Lucky knew his youngest could twist him around her little finger. He had never really seen himself as father, but Selma told him he was wonderful and he had eased into the role that he enjoyed.

He reached for the photo of the children. Eric, at nine, was the oldest, and he bore a striking resemblance to his father. His voice even sounded a bit like Lucky’s and he, like his father, loved horses and riding. Lucky knew his oldest son was not only a fine boy, but a fine human being, and he was filled with pride every time he saw his son.

His second son, now six, was Wyatt, who, while having all the frontier skills of his brother, was an avid reader. Lucky appreciated the trait. He enjoyed books but during his earlier life, he had very little time to read. Their youngest, Melissa, was three, and was absolutely adorable.

A servant knocked on the open door.

Lucky raised his head and smiled. “Yes?”

“Just wondering if there’s anything you need, sir?”

“Thank you, but no. And I would wish, Mr. Jackson, that you would stop calling me ‘sir.’ It makes me think my father is in the house. I’m just Lucky. I never thought much of the name, but Mr. Contrell seems odd to me, too.” He gave another smile. “Never thought much of the nickname Lucky, but life has been lucky to me. Anyway, I’m fine.”

“Yes, sir.”

His mind turned back to his children. The second oldest was Selina. She, too, liked books and horses, which Lucky thought was a good mixture. She was also a very sweet child. Her two brothers, from time to time, thought she was a little too sweet, and kept a loving eye on her. She was the type of person who would do her best to help injured animals or give help to strangers on the road. A wonderful trait, but the two brothers thought it needed to be used with caution. Not everyone in life was as sweet as their sister, the two brothers thought.

As he leaned back in his chair, Lucky thought of the many times when, in his previous life, he’d had bullets flying around him. But none of them had hit him. In his “Western Days,” as he called them, he had only been wounded twice, and both were minor wounds. Once in a while, he felt confined in his office and would saddle his horse and just go riding, back on the trail again, free as the wind.

He didn’t really want to be “free” again, he just wanted to take a few hours to roam his large ranch and appreciate what life had brought to him. If he were to die tomorrow, he would be grieved not to see his children grow up, but he would leave this world tremendously happy, for it could be said of him what could be said of very few men.

His dreams really had come true. He was satisfied with life. And thankful—very thankful.

The servant knocked on the door again.

“Mr. Contrell, there is a man asking to see you. He said he knows you. His name is Hank Stewart.”

“Hank! Hank Stewart,” Lucky said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Bring him in!” He jumped from his chair and walked around the desk. When he saw Stewart, Lucky almost ran toward him to shake his hand.
“Hank, how the heck are you?”

Stewart gave Lucky’s hand a firm shake. “Get better every day. How are you? It’s been years since I’ve seen you.”

“I thought you would have forgotten me. I couldn’t forget you because you have all those books out.” Lucky tapped his friend on his chest. “I have every one of them, and every one is good. You’re a very good writer, and you know the West.”

“Thank you. I wish all my critics were so kind.”

“Sit down, sit down. Would you like a drink? Oh, of course you would, unless you stopped drinking.”

“No, I haven’t done that.”

Stewart sat in the chair in front of Lucky’s desk. Lucky grabbed a whisky bottle from the small bar in the room, and he raised his hand. “I have some of the finest whisky in the state. You know, I don’t think I could drink the hard-rot stuff we used to sniff on the trail. This is truly fine liquor. Selma usually stays with wine but I still drink whisky.”

He handed a glass to his friend, who sipped it.

“Wow,” he said. “That is good stuff. That’s not the type we used to share around campfires on the plains.”

“No, it isn’t. And it costs a great deal more, too.” Lucky leaned back in his chair. “So to repeat the question, how the heck are you?”

“I am doing fine, doing better than I ever thought I would. To be honest, I never thought the critics would like the books, but most have been very complimentary and I find I like being complimented.”

Lucky eased into his chair. “I remember when I read your first book, Circle L Range. I saw the name of the author and said, ‘I know him.’ And I picked it up and read it. For a first novel, it was pretty good. Thought one or two of your characters were based on real people, or at least had some of their traits.” Lucky laughed. “And I thought I saw myself in one of your books, too. What was it… darn, what was that title?”

“A Lonely Grave?”

“Yes, that was it,” Lucky said as he took another sip of his whisky. “That was a fine book, A Lonely Grave. And I thought another character in the book reminded me of Amos.” He shook his head. “Those were two fine characters. Always liked them If those two characters were modeled on us, you did a fine job. I think you gave us credit for too many virtues, but it was appreciated.” He gestured toward the rest of the house. “Selma was reading your book and suddenly she yelled, ‘That’s you! He has you in his novel!’”

“Well, I hope she liked the portrayal.”

“She did, very much. She was telling our friends I was a character in a novel, and I got a mention by the pastor at the local church. When did you begin writing? I know you talked about it and I saw you scribbling once or twice. I figured it was notes for the first novel, but then we split up and I never asked you about it. I trust you made some good money?”

Stewart nodded. “I did. The books sold well and they have—thank the Lord—kept selling. My first novel has gone through another printing. The wonderful thing about writing novels is if a man reads and likes it, he wants to read other books by the same author, so the folks—God bless ‘em—go back and get your other novels. I like to think I’m making plans for my old age. By the way, how is Amos doing?”

Lucky sipped more from his glass. “He’s doing fine. He married Skylar and they are very happy. They’re going to have as big a family as we have. They have four and Skylar is five months into another pregnancy. She, as it turns out, loves children and wanted to have one more. We’re both are executives now and have to stay behind a desk—which, from time to time, I find irritating and confining. But I can’t complain too much because they pay me so well.”

He laughed and shook his head.

“I thought I would spend all my working life on the back of a horse. Shucks, I remember all the trails and all the dirt and dust and Indians and outlaws and stampedes and all the slop we ate. I must admit, this life is better, and Amos shares my opinion. Our families get together often. What about you, are you married?”

“Yes, her name is Julie and, thankfully, she likes books. She thinks it’s wonderful her husband is a fiction writer. I think that’s why she was attracted to me. And I’m glad she was; I’m hopelessly in love with her.”

Lucky smiled. “I’m very happy for you. So, Hank, why did you drop by? Don’t get me wrong, it’s great seeing you again. You will stay and have lunch with us, won’t you?”

He nodded. “I’ll be glad to. I assume you two made enough money to hire a cook.”

Lucky roared with laughter. “We have, so you will be assured of a good meal. But did you just drop by to say hello, or do you have another reason for coming?”

Stewart smiled and scratched the corner of his mouth. “Well, to be honest, there is something I was going to ask you about. I’m not sure how you’ll take it.”

“Tell me what it is and we’ll see.”

“I have written a half-dozen books, all of them Westerns, of course, and I’m beginning to feel the urge to write some non-fiction books as well. Lucky, the West is flooded with those dime novels Easterners write knowing absolutely nothing about the West. I plan to write a few real history books so the people back in Virginia or New York or Massachusetts can read about the real West, not the one presented in the dime novels. I think it’s a story worth telling.”

“Yes, it is,” Lucky agreed. “And there’s adventure, danger, suspense, gunplay, and many other things. And I’m glad we’re getting an honest man to tell the truth about our part of the country. I’ve read some of those dime novels—for laughs, of course—but I must admit I grumbled at bit at all the false details. I think someone should be writing more truthful novels about this land. I think that’s a great idea, Hank, and you would be the perfect man for the job.”

Stewart smiled. “I’m glad you feel that way. Because I’d like to write a history novel about the West, but not about the entire history of the region. I want to focus on one man and his trials and tribulations and triumphs in the West. I wanted to write about you, Lucky.”

Lucky opened his mouth to respond but no words came out.

“To be clear, I want to write a biography about you. Your life is like a microcosm of the West. You grew up relatively poor and made your way doing various jobs, like driving steers, a bit of farming, serving on a number of posses, and working as a lawman at time. Then, you got a welcome contract to guard some beef and got attacked by Indians and outlaws, and fought with other cowboys to deliver your steers to market. Then you married… er, above your station—“

“Way above my station,” Lucky agreed, laughing.

“And now you have a fine family. You’ve even built up an inheritance for your children. That’s a classic story, Lucky—a classic American story. Both you and Amos made those dreams come true. I’d like to put both of you in the book. The story of two cowboys whose history is akin to the stories of so many men in the West, with all the fights, all the gunplay, all the travels. The tale of a man called Lucky who doesn’t believe in luck, who lived the American dream with his friend. They had ups and downs, fought Indians and outlaws, and wound up as two successful businessmen.

“I don’t think a better tale could be told. I just need to know if you will go along with me. I’ll need to do a lot of interviews with you and with Amos. But I need your agreement that you will cooperate with me. It may take a good bit of time; I would like to get all the stories about your life.”

Lucky eased back in his chair. “I never dreamed anyone would want to write a biography of me. I’m just an average cowboy.”

“Who has done some very un-average things. You have a fascinating story to tell. And it won’t just be about you and Amos—it will truly be about the West, too. And it will be something your children can read.”

Lucky paused for a minute. Then, a smile came to his lips.

“Trusting someone to write about your life is a pretty big decision. You don’t know what the author might say. But I trust you, Hank—you’re a good man, and a good writer. I’ve read all your books. I guess if there was anyone I would want to write my life story, it would be you.” He nodded. “It would be a story of the West, too. And I like that. I’ll do it. I’ll give you all the interviews you need.”

“Thank you, my friend. We’ll make it a good book.”

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Grab my new series, "Blood and Honor in the Wild West", and get 2 FREE novels as a gift! Have a look here!

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