Pastor replied as he shook his head.
“Yea, I wish I could ...”
The Pastor interrupted, “I know you do, Jon. But the boy had no kin and you helped send him off. It was a fine gesture, Sheriff.”
Jon nodded. The Pastor climbed in his buggy, the leather cracked, “Gitty up!” he shouted, and the buggy jerked forward toward town.
“I’ve got to be going Jon, I promised Will Banks I’d help him round up some strays,” Ed said as he dropped the hammer in the saddle bag. “You okay?”
“I’ll be fine; see you later at the jail.” Jon smiled at his old friend. Ed’s leg flew up over his Buckskin; he tipped his hat and rode off to the Banks Ranch.
Jon’s heart was heavy as he stood and watched his friend ride away. Alone with his thoughts, the memories of past gunfights and the sounds of death flooded through his mind. The screams, the pain, the violence; it was a recurring theme. He yearned for the simpler days, when he was a younger man. His mind wandered back twenty years ago when he and Ed Morgan first met on the plains of North Dakota. He thought of the whys and wherefores of his life, and how life’s bumpy road had led him to where he was now. As he mounted Babe for the trip back to town, he thought back to that first day in the buffalo camp.
* * *
The bay’s nostrils had flared as she reared up and almost bucked Jon off. “Whoa girl! Whoa!” he tried to calm his frightened steed. The horrible stench of rotting buffalo carcasses piled on the edge of the compound had spooked the jittery horse as they rode into camp. Just twenty-one and fresh from a year long stay in Dodge City, Jon was young and restless and looking for a new adventure. A couple of old timers had told him that buffalo hunting camps in the Red River Valley would be a good bet for a young man like Jon. Fearless and a crack shot, Jon packed up his belongings in Dodge City and headed out to the Dakota Territory, determined to make a go of it as a buffalo hunter.
Jon remembered reining his horse around toward a large tent where several men were standing in line. Others were eagerly exiting the tent and counting their take for the day. Most of them were heading for the saloon tent, some fifty feet away. It won’t be long before those boys will either drink their money away or lose it in a poker game, Jon thought. What a shame. Jon was no fool when it came to money. As he moved into the camp, he saw a group of runners talking loudly and playing poker around a campfire. The old timers in Dodge told Jon to use the name runner, not hunter, while in camp - only green horns used the name hunter. Always proud, Jon didn’t want to be branded a green horn, even if he was new to the fine art of buffalo hunting. Suddenly a fight broke out between two of the runners in the card game. Jon stopped for a second to watch as the two ruffians slugged away.
“Don’t you ever try that again, you lowlife!” one of the men shouted as he leaped out of his seat and dove toward the other player. Money and poker chips were flying everywhere as the two ruffians rolled around on the ground kicking and punching.
Then suddenly, as quickly as it had started, the fight ended. One of the men jumped up, dusted off his jeans and headed back to the game. The other man shouted something at the retreating pugilist and then followed suit. It was just like nothing had ever happened. Both were laughing and joking as they picked up their chips and got back to poker.
Quite a rambunctious group, Jon had thought, I should fit right in here. Jon could down a drink and deal a hand with the best of them, but he always knew where to draw the line. Growing up on a farm in Indiana, his Pa had taught him early on the value of a dollar.
Anxious to get over to the mess tent and get some grub, Jon first had some business to take care of. The old timers in Dodge City had told him the only way to make money in the buffalo camp was to avoid the middle man and get your own outfit. An outfit consisted of two wagons, one large and one small, with metal frame boxes. It took metal frames to withstand the great weight of the buffalo carcasses. The large wagon required twelve mules to haul the dead buffalo back to camp; the smaller wagon required six mules and was used around the camp for lesser loads. A couple of horses, the usual bedrolls, cooking utensils and a tent completed the outfit. A typical setup would cost about two thousand dollars, a lot of money for a man as young as Jon. But Jon was no ordinary young man. Through a combination of hard work and well-honed gambling skills, he had been able to save almost five thousand dollars during his stay in Dodge City - a small fortune.
Jon’s horse was prancing nervously. Finally Jon got up the nerve and blurted out at one of the departing hunters, “Pardon me sir, but do you happen to know of anyone who is looking to sell their outfit?” The old runner frowned as he looked up from counting his cash.
“Kind of’ young to be lookin’ to get your own outfit, ain’t ya fella?” the old timer barked, his skin dark and cracked from all those long days in the hot sun.
“Could be, but I really don’t think so,” Jon shot back.
“I don’t either,” remarked a young man just leaving the tent. “You look plenty old enough to me.”
“Well thank you, and to whom do I owe this pleasure?” Jon immediately liked the friendly young man who had jumped into the conversation and was anxious to learn more about him. Jon smiled and nodded at the old timer, sending him on his way.
“Ed Morgan’s the name, just in from Missouri Territory and looking for a partner.” The young fella spoke confidently as he approached Jon. “Could that be you?”
“Now hold on there friend. I wasn’t really lookin’ for a partner,” a surprised Jon replied with a nervous chuckle. “I was trying to get my own outfit.”
“Well, I understand Mr…?”
“Stoudenmire, Jon Stoudenmire,” Jon responded quickly, a little taken back by the aggressiveness of this young hunter.
“You see Jon, you got a big problem. I been checking around for quite awhile and as far as I can tell, there’s only one outfit for sale in this camp and it’s been promised to me. But I only have half the money it’s going to take to buy it, so I need a partner to cover the other half. You look honest enough to me, so are you in or out?” the young runner pushed on, barely giving Jon a chance to think.
Never one to make rash decisions, Jon was really being pushed by this young Missourian. He wanted more time, but he also wanted to get his own outfit real bad. He liked this brash young tenderfoot and decided to trust his instincts and give it a shot, but not before a little more friendly bantering. Years later, Ed would confess that even he was surprised by how forward he was that first day.
“Now just hold on there fella, I don’t even know if you can shoot straight or not. I might be tying into somebody that couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn from fifty feet. I might end up shooting all the buffs and then you’ll want to split the profits.” Jon’s eyes narrowed as he looked over at the young runner.
Without saying a word, Ed carefully lifted his .50-90 Sharp Carbine up out of its saddle holster and raised it carefully to his left forearm. Jon wondered what the heck he was doing, as he leveled the large rifle for a possible shot. Ed then took direct aim at a big sign hanging some hundred yards away, next to the Wells Fargo Tent. It seemed like an eternity before Ed gently squeezed the trigger on the beautiful rifle.
Boom! came the blast from Ed’s .50-90. All eyes turned to look at the distant sign. Splinters flew as the bullet hit the soft pine edifice. It was a long way off, but it appeared to Jon that the “e” in the Wells Fargo sign
