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  Published by The Hartwood Publishing Group, LLC,

  Hartwood Publishing, Phoenix, Arizona

  www.hartwoodpublishing.com

  Scar and the Double D Ranch

  Copyright © 2015 by Jim Cox

  Hartwood Digital Release: December 2017

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Scar and the Double D Ranch by Jim Cox

  The latter part of the 1870s finds frontiersman Marshal Bart Carter, known as Scar, married and living in Flat Peaks, Colorado, with his beautiful wife, Liz. She teaches at a one-room schoolhouse while Scar fulfills his special assignment duties for Governor Routt. Battling cattle rustling and robberies are some of Scar’s endeavors while surviving the rigors and harsh conditions of Colorado’s intense winter blizzards and rugged landscapes.

  Due to Scar’s success, the Governor appoints him to his cabinet as Director of Indian Affairs. While in this political position, gold and silver are discovered on Indian land which causes an invasion of prospectors. This creates a severe conflict between the Indians and white men, even to the point of Indian uprisings.

  Scar feels the Indians had a right to be upset because the land has been given exclusively to the natives under US treaties. To settle the matter, officials rescinded the deals in place with the Indians and develop a plan to move all Indians to reservations with no consideration for their customs, heritage, hunting grounds, and sacred territorial migrations, which concerns Scar deeply. He sees it as a terrible injustice with a potential for bloodshed on both sides.

  After being kidnapped and severely beaten by pro-Indian-reservation operatives, Scar has high-level meetings in Denver with both Governor Routt and President Hayes on behalf of the Indians’ plight. Many changes are in the wind for the Indian nations and also for Scar as the West advances forward in step with the rest of the country on the verge of the Industrial Revolution. Scar and the Double D Ranch will keep you in suspense with Scar’s adventures and life lessons interspersed into another fantastic tale about A Man Called Scar.

  Dedication

  To the memories of my siblings: John, Imogene, Sina, and Ruth Ann

  Chapter One

  The big stranger sat a few yards inside the tree line on a high, straight-up rock cliff, watching the last glimmer of the evening sun. Its rays colored the pillow-like clouds floating overhead in all shades of red and pink, creating a picturesque setting. Not far behind the man were a mountain stream and a small clearing where his mule, Maude, was busy eating sprigs of grass. She was reddish-brown, stood over five-and-a-half feet at the withers, which was extremely tall for a mule, and suitable for a man the stranger’s size. The mule had been his mount for years, but more than that, she had been his companion through all sorts of trouble. In fact, their affection for one another was so strong the man didn’t bother to restrict her in any way. She wandered off as she pleased but always responded to his whistle.

  It had been several minutes since the riders he was observing left the valley below, so he felt at ease to build a fire to prepare his evening meal and heat water. The man knew smoke could be seen for miles, even during nighttime, so he located an ideal place under a cluster of pine trees which would dissipate it. Close by was a large flat rock, just the right height for sitting.

  After the fire was burning, he went to the stream for coffee water. Maude moseyed over to have her head scratched and then went back to the grass. While at the stream, the man laid his hat on a rock, removed his bandanna, and washed his face and neck. Afterward, as he lay on his chest with his head over the water to get a drink, a mirror image of his face came into view. He spent a few seconds observing the reflection. Dark sun-tanned skin, blue eyes, thick coal black hair, and a beard and mustache that matched his hair. His eyes went to the massive scar on his left cheek. It started at his ear, crossed his cheek, barely missing his eye, and then angled back down to his jawbone. The scar was nine inches long and nearly an inch wide, and even though he left the whiskers long around the scar, it was still very noticeable.

  Scar, as he was known because of his marked face, sat on the rock by the fire drinking coffee and cooking bacon on a forked stick hanging over the fire. Drops of liquid fat occasionally fell, causing rising puffs of black smoke to filter through the overhead pine needles. After eating three bacon and biscuit sandwiches, he sat back and enjoyed another cup of coffee. In the high, mid-November altitude, the mountain breeze cooled things off considerably. Scar relaxed and enjoyed the warmth the coffee gave him. After finishing, he went to his saddle, untied his sheepskin coat, and put it on. He moved his saddle, carpet bag, and saddle bag behind a large boulder, out of sight of any passersby. He removed his sleeping roll and ground tarp and spread them, so his saddle could be used for a pillow. He went back to his sitting rock and poured another cup.

  It was well after sunset, but the moon hadn’t come out yet, so the mountain was in inky darkness. Small flickering flames kept the pot hot as it sat on a flat rock at the fire’s edge. Occasionally Scar would add a stick or two and then sit back, holding his cup, as he thought about home in Flat Peaks. Flat Peaks was a small cow town in north central Colorado. It was twelve miles south of a high-up mountain ridge, with some peaks exceeding twelve thousand feet. His home-away-from-home was the Double D Ranch which lay at the foot of the mountain ridge. It was a four-thousand-acre cow ranch owned by his wife’s parents, Alice and Herb Douglas.

  Scar had been on this assignment for ten days and was missing his friends and family at the Double D, but mostly, he was missing his wife, Liz. They had married two months ago on September 17, 1876. Scar had been reluctant to leave his bride but felt obligated to the newly appointed Colorado governor, John Long Routt, who had offered him a lawman’s job a month before he married.

  Scar was on a last-minute assignment. He had originally intended to oversee the U.S. election in and around Flat Peaks, but days before the event, he received a telegram from the governor saying the United States Congress had passed legislation canceling the election in Colorado and mandated the state’s legislature to fill positions at their own discretion. The mandate included the governorship and Colorado’s three presidential electoral votes. It said the reason for the departure was because of the short duration of Colorado’s statehood. It had only been three months since Colorado became the country’s thirty-eighth state, with statehood occurring on August 1, 1876, so there hadn’t been enough time to get matters organized and the funding secured for a reliable election.

  Instead of overseeing the polls, Scar found himself on a last-minute assignment to investigate cattle rustling from ranches around Pinneo, a small cow town near the Fremont Butte in the northwest corner of Colorado. It was a little over a hundred miles from his home in Flat Peaks.

  During his time in the area, Scar had stayed away from town, not wanting to draw attention to himself. He knew
a six-foot-four-inch stranger weighing two-hundred thirty-five pounds and riding a flop-eared mule would certainly draw suspicion. Consequently, he’d spent his days and nights on high up plateaus around the spreads reporting thievery. His surveillance had answered many of the original unknown questions, narrowing his list of suspects to three. Scar’s present campsite allowed him to see for miles down the valley toward many of the ranches. It was a good place to see cattle being driven, even rustled cattle. If the stolen cows could be found, Scar was sure he could solve the case within a day or two.

  Scar’s reminiscing was interrupted by an elk bugle from the north. Seconds later, a bugle from the east sounded. He started to add more fuel to the fire but decided to turn in. He wanted to be up by morning gray for a quick breakfast and be positioned in his lookout stand before any activity occurred in the valley. He banked the fire with three slow-burning limbs, picked up his rifle, whistled for Maude, and walked to his bedroll. By the time his hat, shirt, boots, and guns were removed and stored under a protective cover, Maude ambled up. She was his watchdog of the night. It was dark, but the stars and the light from the half-moon were enough to make out silhouettes.

  He lay with his hands under his head, thinking about the days ahead. If he were lucky, he could find the stolen cows and figure out who was doing the rustling within a day or two. He listened for night sounds—nothing out of the ordinary. He watched Maude lie down, resting on folded legs. Her relaxed ears meant no unwanted critters were in the area. Scar felt rather small as he took in a sky full of stars, sparkling in the clear Colorado night. The treetops were swaying, and an occasional cloud floated eastward. He turned to his side.

  »»•««

  Scar was holding coffee in his lookout stand by the time it was full light. He had rested well, eaten a good breakfast, and packed his belongings. Nothing stirred in the valley, but looking through binoculars, he saw clusters of black dots a few miles to the south. He assumed the dots were buffalo. To the north, between mountain tops, eagles soared. Time passed slowly.

  By midmorning, the bright sun was beaming down heat waves. As Scar stood to remove his coat, he saw a line of dust in the far distance coming toward him. He set the binoculars aside, not wanting the sun to reflect off the glass and give away his position. The dust moved at a snail’s pace.

  Several minutes later, Scar’s suspicions came true. Three riders drove twenty-one head of cows up the valley. He knew the only thing in the valley where they were heading was a boxed canyon, maybe several. Most likely they were driving the cows to one. An hour later the dust disappeared among the mountain ridges to the north.

  It would take time for the three riders to leave the valley, so Scar went back to his campsite, kindled a small fire to make more coffee, and ate a hardtack. After drinking two cups, he went back to his stand where he sat with his back against a tree.

  For the next three hours, he took in the beautiful landscape and watched an occasional wild animal pass through the valley. His thoughts rambled. He was thinking of Liz when the dust reappeared. The men he had seen earlier were returning without the cows.

  When they had traveled past him a mile or so, he whistled for Maude, saddled her, tied his saddle bag and carpet bag to the back of the saddle, and headed down the mountain toward the cow tracks. It was obvious from the ruts dozens of cows had been driven up the trail over the years. However, the morning’s prints covered the old tracks and were easy to follow. After riding for an hour, the tracks led to a row of felled trees piled across the opening of a horseshoe boxed canyon. A couple of small trees served as the gate. Scar found his way in and was astonished at what he saw. He estimated the canyon encompassed seven hundred acres of lush grass surrounded by high cliffs. Over five hundred cows were milling about. Not far from the entrance was a smoldering fire pit with branding irons close by.

  For the next hour, Scar scouted the brands on the cows. They varied in the healing process from freshly burned to completely healed. Scar could easily distinguish the newly altered portion of the brands and made the appropriate sketches on his notepad. There were eight altered brands. The originals could have been easily changed with a straight iron by connecting a few lines on the original brands. He tore out the sketches, put them in his vest pocket, and headed for Pinneo. It would be dark when he got there.

  Pinneo was quiet when Scar rode down its only street. The homes and businesses were mostly dark except for the tavern located in the middle of town that echoed with a piano and loud talking. The big man smiled. “Just like most western towns,” he mumbled. “They all support a tavern.” As he continued, he saw a café, a bank, the jail, a mercantile, a barber, and a livery. They were all dark. He was looking for a hotel but saw none. Near the road’s end was a big house with a boarding house sign, but it was dark too. Scar started to leave to find a site to camp but changed his mind.

  Several minutes after his firm knock, a dim light shone through a porch window. The door eased back revealing an old woman wearing a robe over a nightgown hanging to her ankles. She raised her lamp higher, eyeing the big stranger from hat to boot. Her gray hair was twisted under her nightcap, and she was barefoot. “It’s awful late,” she said with a sour face. “I’ve been asleep for over an hour. Couldn’t you have slept under the stars?”

  “I considered that, ma’am, but I’ve slept under ’em for the past ten days and thought it was time for a soft bed. But if it’s too much trouble, I can spend another night under ’em.” The old woman softened and introduced herself. Scar responded by saying his name was Bart Carter.

  They settled on six bits a day, which included his room, breakfast and supper, and a stall with feed for Maude. Taking Maude to the barn behind the house, he removed the saddle and put her in a stall, and then he put a pint of oats and five ears of corn in the trough. Taking his rifle from the saddle boot and retrieving his two bags, Scar headed for bed.

  Scar woke at first light, splashed water on his face, and finger-combed his hair. After dressing and putting on his coat, he headed downstairs with his saddle bag. Mrs. Detwiler saw him at the back door and called to him, “Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes, Bart. Aren’t you gonna eat with us?”

  “No, ma’am. I may be back later, but don’t wait on me.”

  “I keep food warm until eight o’clock. After that, I put things away. Coffee is always on. By the way, I do laundry for twenty-five cents. If you need anything washed, lay them by your door…I’ll pick ’em up.”

  “I’m obliged to know that, ma’am. I have several things that need washed.” Scar nodded his goodbye and went to the barn to give Maude a feeding of oats and corn, along with a fork of hay. Her water barrel was still over half full.

  Scar walked down the road, saw an open shop with a sign in the window saying HAIRCUT AND BEARD TRIM 10 CENTS—BATH 15 CENTS. When Scar entered, the barber motioned toward the chair. Scar put his saddle bag in a chair before sitting. “Cut my hair and trim my beard, but leave the whiskers around my scar fairly long.” The barber’s face took on a puzzled look as he observed the big man’s scar. “After you’re finished cutting, I’d like a bath if the water’s clean and hot.”

  “It’s early. Only two men have used the tub, and I always keep a couple of buckets heating on the fire outside.”

  After his haircut, Scar headed for the outside tub, climbed in, and soaked for several minutes. The hot water felt good. Scar toweled off, removed clean clothes from his saddlebag, and dressed. He was paying the two bits when the barber asked, “You wouldn’t be the man called Scar…the man who put his life on the line to save a fellow trail driver during a stampede a couple years back?”

  Scar answered nonchalantly. “It could have been me. I was on a cattle drive two years back, and some folks do call me Scar.”

  “Sure had people talking,” said the barber. “Your name still comes up from time to time.” Scar smiled, tipped his hat, and left.

  He was feeling refreshed and ready for his morning meal. As he remem
bered, the café was across the street and north a few doors. All eyes turned his way when he entered. His muscular body nearly filled the door, and his black, flat-brimmed hat almost touched the top of the door frame. He hung his coat on a wall peg and headed for a corner table. Coffee was being poured for him by the time he sat down. One by one the customers went back to eating.

  Scar was evaluating the men at the five bench tables when a pleasant looking, middle-aged woman brought his food. It was like most western restaurants—there were no choices. You ate what they brought. His plate was filled with three fried eggs, fried potatoes, four pieces of bacon, and a bowl of gravy. Centered on the table were salt and pepper, butter, jelly, and a platter of biscuits. Scar dug in but continued to observe the other tables. They matched men in other western towns he’d been to—a conglomerate of nationalities, races, and physical characteristics. Some were tall and skinny, some had beards or mustaches, and some were clean-shaven. Some were dressed well, but some wore clothing that was nearly rags. They were all different but were the same. Occasional stares came his way.

  When he finished eating, the waitress filled his cup again and took his empty plate. She’d been to his table three times with coffee when he waved her off with a smile, paid his bill, and left with everyone’s eyes on his back. At least that’s what he imagined.

  By this time of day, the hitching rails held several ties, so Scar walked slowly up the boardwalk looking at brands. Several of the original brands he had seen on the stolen cattle were present on horses’ rumps, but he found none of the altered ones. After walking along both sides of the street, he came to a building with a sheriff’s sign hanging beside the door. He entered.

  The sheriff had his back to the door doing paperwork when Scar entered. “Have a seat,” he said in a hoarse voice. “Be with you in a minute.” Scar remained standing inside the door. A little later the sheriff turned toward the door and stared at the huge stranger. His eyes lingered on the scar. “What can I do for you?” he asked.