Chapter 4: The Great Divide

Three days after burying the man and woman beside the trail, Hoyt rode into Durango, Colorado early in the morning. He’d wanted to travel faster, but his horses were tired after being pushed hard for six days out of Mexican Hat Junction.

When he saw the livery stables, he headed straight toward them. While Chelley and the pack horse ate crushed oats and fresh hay, he brushed them, then wiped them down with a wet sack before checking their shoes. He knew there would be rough country ahead, especially if they had to cross the Rockies. He wanted new shoes put on both horses before leaving.

Having noticed the farrier’s tools, anvil, and kegs of horseshoes, Hoyt stopped to check the new shoes on three horses tied along a wall near the forge and anvil. Satisfied with shoeing jobs he saw, he stopped to talk to the man.

“I’d like to have you shoe my packhorse and my Paint back there. I’ll be here for the night, then I’ll be riding on up toward Ironton at first light.”

“I’ll have them shod and ready for you before morning ... You’re headed up to try your hand at finding a little silver or gold, I reckon?”

“No, I’m looking for a man – and I have reason to believe he’s headed to Denver. I tracked him here to Durango and I was told that the only safe passage across the Rockies was Red Mountain Pass, so I’m headed up there from here.”

“You were told partly right, but that ain’t gonna be no safe ride any time of year. That trail’s one hell of a rough one, from Silverton – through the pass and on to Ironton, then back down to the other side. Been through there myself and swore I’d never go back through there again. Rock slides or snow slides just about every day through there. Some of them block the trail so bad, a rider leading a pack horse would have to take his horses through some bad-ass rough country if he was determined to get across The Divide.”

“Maybe I’ll catch up to my man before then, and turn back here to Durango. I’d be glad to hitch a ride on the train and head south out of these mountains, if there was a way I could.”

“What are you, a law-man or Bounty Hunter?”

“Deputy U.S. Marshal, out of Phoenix.” Hoyt lied, but he had a badge and papers as proof ... if a man didn’t look too close.

“Hell of a long ways to track a man ... What all did he do to get you on his trail for so long?”

“Robbed a bank. Killed two women during the robbery.”

“That Son of a Bitch! Killed two women, did he? I hope they hang the bastard ... Better yet, I hope you catch up to him and kill him your ownself, and leave the bastard laying in the dirt for the buzzards. Save you the trouble of taking him back. A woman-killing bastard like him don’t deserve to live long enough to have a trial ... He needs to die slow and suffer, for killing a woman! Hell, we’re short on women around here as it is...

...”Don’t ‘spose you’d have a picture of him, would you?”

“Got two, as a matter of fact. Here’s his wanted poster ... And here’s his other picture.”

“Son of a bitch! I traded for that man’s old wore-out mule, against a fresh saddle horse and a complete outfitted, short-legged Jenny-Mule. He left here just a little over a hour ago, headed toward Silverton – just as you suspected.”

“Would you shoe the Paint and give me forty dollars for my packhorse – packsaddle ‘n all? I need to get a bath and eat while you’re shoeing my horse.”

“Hell Yes, I will ... I hope you catch up to that bastard before this time tomorrow. You head on over to the barbershop and get a bath. Then go to the hotel and get your belly full. I’ll get my boy to help me, and we’ll have that big Paint of yours shod by the time you get back. It’s nigh-on to forty miles up to Silverton and it’s rougher’n all hell put-together the last half of the way, from Silverton on up through The Pass. He’ll be held to a slow walk too, by that little short-legged Jenny-Mule he bought from me. Damn-glad I sold him that little little girl now ... Damn it all, and damn his sorry hide to hell, for the killing of two women!”

Hoyt pulled his last suit of clean clothes, and his other suit of dirty clothes out of the canvas on his packsaddle and took his bedroll to the barbershop with him.

After a scalding hot bath and a shave – with both suits of dirty clothes rolled up in his bedroll – Hoyt headed to the hotel to get a hot meal and fill his poke with extra food for the trail.

“Deputy, you’re two and a half hours behind that woman-killer. That short-legged Jenny-Mule won’t walk near as fast as that horse Paw sold him. You’ll likely overtake him ‘tween here ‘n Silverton, ridin’ that long-legged Paint stud of your’n,” Nick, the liveryman’s son told Hoyt as he mounted.

With new shoes on his hooves and without the drag of a packhorse behind him, Chelley was stepping lively when they left Durango, headed north. Hoyt let his big horse strike his own pace, since he’d gotten his belly full, rested, and had a new set of shoes put on.

Though the trail was rough, and a slow grade upward, Chelley kept his pace on into late afternoon. Hoyt stopped him at a fast moving creek running across the trail and both of them took a long drink of cool mountain water. He wrapped his reins around a jagged rock and stepped upon a tall boulder with his telescope.

Just as he spotted a rider leading a small packmule – the rider suddenly turned his horse completely around, then circled back to lead the packmule off the west side of the trail between two tall boulders.

Hoyt made note of the stone pillars pointing skyward, where the man left the trail. From here to where the man turned off, the trail had a slight downhill grade and they made good time until dark overtook them.

Hoyt wasn’t sure how far Wharton – if this rider actually was Wharton – rode after leaving the main trail. He stopped Chelley at a clear mountain pool, took his saddle off, then fed him some oats. He knew he wasn’t far from where he’d seen the rider leave the trail, but he wasn’t about to ride past him in the dark ... or ride upon him and risk being shot.

Along about midnight, the full moon was shining down the western slopes of the tallest peaks, casting a yellow glow over the mountain trail.

Awakening from a restless sleep, Hoyt looked down the moonlit trail and decided to saddle Chelley. When he was saddled and ready, Hoyt took the two pair of pants from his bedroll and cut the legs off both pair. He doubled each pant leg, then using strips of rawhide, he tied a pant leg around each hoof to make a pad.

Leading Chelley, he made his way down the sloping trail until he saw the two stone pillars silhouetted against the western sky.

There, he waited until sunrise.

At first light, Hoyt stepped over to have a quick look through the gap between the stone pillars. The narrow trail led to a lake, just a short distance from where he stood. Not sure what to expect, he led Chelley slowly down the narrow trail, with his gun in his right hand.

With his telescope, he stood in a thick growth of brush and briars, quickly scanning the lake shore. Not seeing any sign of a campfire, he stepped out away from the brush and briars to take one more, slower look around the lake. The lake was every bit of three hundred feet across, with trees and buckbrush lining the water’s edge in most places. This time, as he slowly turned, he saw a thin column of smoke rising above the bushes, not a hundred feet from where he stood. Try as he might, he could not see the campfire, the man, or the man’s horse and mule through the thick brush.

He knew that now was the best time to get the jump on the man. He just wasn’t sure how he could make it work. He wasn’t about to leave Chelley, for fear the big Paint would come after him – like Buck did...

Leading Chelley slowly around the edge of the lake, following a game trail, he came to a point where he could see the campfire, a horse, and the Jenny-Mule. He knew then, this was the man he was after, but he didn’t see the man anywhere. His bedroll was laid open and empty.

Thinking Wharton may have spotted him, or heard Chelley stepping on the stones, Hoyt tied his horse to a small, but sturdy sapling. He took a set of leg-irons and handcuffs out of his saddlebags before walking around to stand in front of Chelley. Patting his nose and hugging his neck, he whispered, “Chelley, you gotta stay here until I come back for you ... You just gotta, Big Man, you just gotta...”

Patting his nose again, Hoyt took a step away from Chelley, then turned to hold his hand up in front of him, before turning quickly with his gun in hand.

Slipping along the game trail, with his gun in his right hand, his irons in his left, Hoyt looked out into the bushes on both sides, and up ahead, with each careful step he took. Stopping within a few feet of the campfire, Hoyt was almost sure the man had seen or heard him, and was hiding in the brush nearby, waiting for him.

Then he heard a scuffling of leaves just to the right of where he stood. Turning quickly with his gun ready, he saw the man hunkered low, with his pants down taking a shit. Seeing no gun close by, Hoyt rushed the man, causing him to fall backward into his own pile of shit as he struggled to stand.

“Stay where you are, Wharton, or I’ll kill you with shit smeared all over your ass.”

“Who are you? How did you know my name?” The man asked, struggling to get off the ground.

“Who I am won’t make no difference to you. Now, get your britches up and be damn careful how you do it. I’d just as soon kill you now and take you back to Phoenix in a pine box, as I would take you back alive.”

“You gotta let me wipe my ass! Hell Man, I got shit all over me when you jumped out and scared me like that.”

“Then get some leaves and wipe your ass. Just be real slow about it and be sure you don’t reach for a knife or a gun or you’ll die right here!”

Hoyt was standing to the side of Wharton as he wiped himself then pulled his britches up. He saw the wound where the Phoenix Deputy had nicked Wharton’s lower leg. His leg was still bruised, red, and swollen, but the ugly, bloody cut had scabbed over.

“Lay face down on the ground with your hands behind your back. If you make one move to turn over or get up, I’ll gladly save the Phoenix Courthouse the cost of a trial and a hanging.”

By the time Hoyt had his prisoner chained to a tree at the campsite, dark clouds were looming back in the west. Wharton was watching his every move, so Hoyt took a canvas poke and pulled it down over the man’s head.

“You just sit there real quiet in the dark as I sift through your belongings ... You may yet live to see that courthouse back in Phoenix.”

“I have enough money in my saddlebags to pay you well, if you’ll let me go and not come after me again,” the man offered ... mumbling from beneath the canvas bag.

“You don’t have a damn thing to offer me! I have your saddlebags and carpetbags laid out over here. Just keep your damn mouth shut and you might stand a chance to see that courthouse. You keep on and I’ll bury you right here beside this lake.”

The man slumped down against the tree, never uttering another word as Hoyt counted the money in the saddlebags. There was twenty-five thousand in both bags combined and he figured this was the the Phoenix Bank money. Sifting through the carpetbag, he discovered another five thousand dollars. He sat hunkered back on his heels, looking at the man slumped against the tree – chained – with his head covered. He’d already learned enough about Wharton to know the man would never work to earn this kind of money. He wasn’t the working kind. This had to be stolen money.

Without making a sound, Hoyt walked back down the trail to get Chelley. The big Paint threw his head in the air, pawing at the ground as Hoyt walked up to him.

“I told you I’d be back to get you ... Was you missing me?“ he said, patting his nose, letting his horse nudge against his chest. Standing beside Chelley, he stuffed the extra five thousand into both his saddlebags.

Leading Chelley back to Wharton’s camp, he felt the first raindrops. Looking out over the lake toward the west, he saw the heavy rain coming in the distance. He took his saddle off and led Chelley over beside the horse and mule, where he tied him.

The little Jenny-Mule still had the packsaddle on her back and Hoyt loosened the ropes to pull the pack off, letting it fall to the ground. Then he loosened the cinches and lifted the packsaddle frame off to lay it on the ground. Inside the pack, he found a full bag of oats. With his hands, he scooped enough out to make a pile in front of the mule, Chelley and the other horse.

The rain was already sprinkling down when Hoyt shook out Wharton’s bedroll, then walked over to cover the man’s legs, stuffing the other end of the bedroll down over his head, between his shoulders and the tree, so it wouldn’t blow off. He pulled the canvas from around the packsaddle and draped it over his head before sitting on a log. Propping his boots up, sheltered from the rain, he leaned back against a limb sticking up at an angle from the log. With the rain pouring down, Hoyt pulled the canvas down over his face and drifted off to asleep.

Three times during the rain storm, he raised the tarp enough to see his watch. The last time, it was dark and he couldn’t make out the time. The rain never let up during the night and on into late afternoon of the following day.

The next time he awakened, he didn’t hear the rain. Raising the tarp he could see the skies clearing back in the west. Looking at his watch, he felt there was no need to get saddled and head back south to Durango before morning. The air was suddenly turning much colder with night coming on, and this was as good a place to camp as any along the trail.

During the night, Hoyt was suddenly awakened by the earth shaking beneath him, nearly throwing him off the log. He sat up quickly when he heard the loud roar off in the distance. His first thought was – flash flood – until he heard the rumbling ... The earth began trembling beneath him, then came a sound like the mountaintops were caving in around him.

For five minutes or more, the rumbling continued ... Then, just as quick as it started, the sound was gone and all was quiet the rest of the night.

He was up by first light. Shivering from the cold, he looked through the items in the man’s packsaddle, to find a coffeepot and coffee. With the camp axe he found in the packsaddle, he chopped dry bark and parts of the tree limb from the log where he’d slept. He was able to chop enough dry wood to make coffee, then he went to check on the horses and mule.

He led them to the lake to drink, then tied them again before feeding more oats.

With the animals cared for, he pulled the bedroll off Wharton’s head. The man was awake, glaring up at him. “You could’ve at least let me up to piss, once or twice.”

“Wharton, we have a long ways to travel before we make it back to Phoenix. You better be on your best manners between now and the day we arrive, or your dead, stiff body will be tied across that little Jenny-Mule, rolled up in a tarp when we get there. Your wanted poster says, Dead or Alive, and I’m going to leave it up to you ... if you ever set eyes on Phoenix again.”