A Good Man

Harsh mountains make good men

The “Tales From Wyoming” are a collection of interconnected short stories of the Pioneers and the Old West. Each story combines some fiction with some legend with a liberal dose of real history. The stories are standalone adventures and the adventure begins with A Good Man.

A gunshot echoing in the mountains could only be bad news. Indian attack? An afternoon’s trip through the Wind River Mountains changed Morgan’s life. In the 1884 Wyoming wilderness, Morgan found the dying Ezra Thorne.

The gunshot rang out, echoing between the hills to the north.

“Easy Butch.” Morgan Sandburg comforted his startled gelding. He looked towards the canyon between the mountains to the north, the apparent source of the gunshot. He saw nothing, no telltale smoke. It had been the sharp crack of a pistol, not the low boom of a rifle.

Morgan considered riding away; continuing his trip to Atlantic City. He had work to do and this was no business of his. However, a hunter would have used a rifle. Most men in the wilderness of Wyoming Territory carried pistols for defense. These were close range weapons useful against attacking Indians and snakes. While one couldn’t kill a bear with a pistol shot, it was the best way to scare them away. People in Wyoming were few and far between. This trail between Christina Lake and Atlantic City had recently become the most heavily traveled in the Wind River Range, but Morgan had completed the trip a half-dozen times and never seen a living soul — well, other than the time he was jumped by three Indians. Thus, he reasoned the person who fired the pistol was likely in need of assistance. Morgan knew he would appreciate a helping hand if a band of Indians took an interest in him.

He stood in the stirrups as though the extra few inches in height would help him locate the source of the gunshot. He examined the deep valley in detail. There had only been one shot. A man battling Indians would have fired several rounds in quick succession.

A second gunshot boomed. This time Butch did not flinch. This time Morgan was focused on the terrain to the north. Without a doubt, the gunshot had originated in the small canyon. There was still no sign of gun smoke; however, with the backdrop of gray rocks, gun smoke would be hard to spot. Morgan loosened his rifle in its scabbard and drew his own pistol. He checked the cylinder to ensure it was loaded. This was mere habit; of course, it was always loaded. The Indians hated the miners and attacks were common.

“Shall we go have us a look-see?” Morgan asked his horse.

Butch snorted.

Taking this as an affirmative answer, Morgan tugged the reins to the left and nudged his heel into Butch’s right flank. The horse turned from the trail and began a trot through the thin brush along the dry creek bed. Morgan kept his eyes on the sides of the canyon as they closed around him. This would be an ideal location for an Indian ambush. He eased the tension on the reins, leaving the task of navigation to Butch.

After a quarter-mile Butch slowed. Morgan noticed Butch’s ears were cantered toward the eastern side of the canyon. He snugged the reins, bringing the horse to a halt. Tuning out Butch’s labored breathing, Morgan listened.

A shrill wail echoed between the canyon walls. It was not any sound Morgan had heard from an Indian or an animal — not even a wounded animal. He drew his pistol, but immediately returned it to its holster.

“Where’s that coming from?” he asked the horse.

Butch stretched his neck and looked to the east. Morgan was under no illusion that the horse had understood his question, but the noise was most likely drawing Butch’s curiosity. And, the horse had a better sense of hearing than any human. Thus, Morgan directed Butch to the eastern wall of the canyon.

They moved slowly, listening to the wailing. Morgan swiveled his head to and fro in an effort to determine the source from the echoes. In a few minutes, he determined the sound was human and emanating from the rock wall. This portion of the canyon was a cliff more than a hundred feet high. It was far too steep for a man to climb, much less a horse. If the person wailing was atop the cliff, Morgan would be of no help.

As he drew closer, the originating sound became clearly separated from the echoes and Morgan decided the man was singing. However, he did not recognize the hymn.

Cupping his hands around his mouth, Morgan shouted, “Hello!” After a moment, he shouted again.

The singing stopped.

“Is someone there?” a man’s voice drifted down from the cliff.

“Yes, I’m Morgan Sandburg. Did you fire those two pistol shots? Are you in need of assistance?”

“Mr. Sandburg, my good man, indeed I did the shoot’n, and I am in rather dire straits.”

Morgan located the source of the voice and nudged Butch closer.

“I can hear you, but I can’t see you,” Morgan said.

An arm covered with the sleeve of a red shirt appeared and waved. “Here I am, Mr. Morgan.” The person was wedged behind a large rock midway from the top to the bottom of the cliff. “I’m afraid I’m gunshot and can’t get up. My leg’s broke too.”

“Who shot you?”

“Sad to say, I did it myself, but not through any deliberate intention.”

“Huh?”

“The name’s Ezra Thorne. I was prospecting and spotted a doe. Deciding some venison would make a fine dinner, I tied my horse to a tree and stalked the beast on foot. I did not notice my proximity to the cliff. While drawing a bead on the deer, the rock I was standing upon gave way. As I fell, my pistol discharged and shot me in the leg. Making matters worse, my other leg got broke when I hit bottom.”

“My word, Mr. Thorne, you are having a bad time of it. How can I get to you?”

“That’s only the half of it. I seem to have fallen into a nest of rattlers. I shot one, with my pistol, but there are others. Sooner or later, they will decide to make me move. But, of course, I cannot.”

“I see. I’ll hurry.”

Morgan leapt off Butch’s back and tied the reins to a scrub tree. He began searching for a way to climb up the cliff.

“Hang on, I’m coming up.”

“Ah, you are indeed an angel. I thought my time on this Earth was finished and started singing to God in an effort to convince him that my sins were not so very bad as to keep me from entering the pearly gates. Graciously, he has sent me an angel in the form of you, Mr. Sandburg.”

“Ha, sir, I don’t think I’m an angel, but it was your singing which allowed me to locate you.”

Morgan managed to climb a third of the way up the cliff, but he was twenty or more feet to the left of Ezra. He could find no handholds which would allow him to approach closer. From his vantage point, he could clearly see Ezra. One leg was bent at an unnatural angle and blood was dripping under the rock which held him pinned.

Morgan observed Ezra was about ten years older than his own twenty years of age. He was dressed like a local, but his manner of speech was quite foreign. He was clearly not from Wyoming. Additionally, no true westerner would ever carry his pistol with a round in the chamber under the hammer. Morgan’s father had told him several stories of people accidently shooting themselves in the exact manner Ezra had shot himself. Thus, while pistols held six shots, no one carried more than five loaded cylinders. Dropping the gun, or falling on the hammer was far too easy a way to meet your maker. However, Morgan did not take the time to lecture Ezra on this fine point of gun handling.

“Does it hurt?” Morgan asked, and then immediately regretted the question.

“Yes, it is rather painful.” Ezra allowed emotion and agony to enter his voice for the first time. “I don’t suppose you have any whiskey?”

“Sorry, none.” Morgan examined the rock wall above him and concluded there was no possibility he could climb higher. “I’ll have to go back down and ride around to the top and lower down a rope.” Morgan was not a cowboy and didn’t carry a lasso, but like all men riding the mountain trails, he did have a length of rope for corralling his horse. If Ezra had a similar rope attached to his saddle, Morgan could use them together to reach the wounded man.

“Uh, Mr. Sandburg, as much as I appreciate your zeal, I think such an effort would not meet with success. You see, it is a rather long ride around to the top and I am bleeding rather profusely. I fear I will be crossing heaven’s gate much too quickly.”

“Huh?”

“I’m bleeding to death. I’ll be dead in a few minutes.”

“Oh, what can I do?” Morgan could see the flow of blood seeping around the rock had increased.

“You are indeed and angel, Mr. Sandburg — “

“Please, sir, call me Morgan.”

“Ah, yes, Morgan, without a doubt, God has sent you to comfort me in these final minutes. You see, I was afraid of dying alone and I prayed the time would pass quickly. Indeed, it is passing quickly, but I am so glad not to be alone. What you can do for me, is to just sit there and talk with me. And, please feel free to call me Ezra.”

Morgan was not exactly sitting. He was clinging precariously to the rock wall. He wondered how long his fingers would maintain their grip. If the toe of one of his boots should slip, he would fall to the rocks below, probably breaking his own leg.

“Sure, I’ll stay with you.” Morgan thought for a moment, realizing the man liked to talk. “Tell me, Ezra where are you from?”

“Born and bred in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, my friend. I’m an engineer and I moved west to work on the railroad improvements. Morgan, where are you from?”

In 1884, most everyone in Wyoming was from somewhere else. Morgan was the exception.

“I’m from here. Born in Fort Laramie, but I lived most of my life in Cheyenne after the railroad built the town.”

“Really, a true native son, eh? So, were your parents crossing the Great Plains in a prairie schooner and your mother popped you out midway? They then settled here?”

In 1803, President Thomas Jefferson completed the Louisiana Purchase and acquired all the land drained by the Missouri River from the French. This included the western territories. A year later, the Lewis and Clark Expedition began to explore this new land, searching for a passage to connect the east and west coasts of North America. While they did reach the Pacific Ocean their route was through the rugged Rocky Mountains via a path even a horse could not follow. There was no chance commerce via ox drawn wagons could follow this route.

Following this early expedition, mountain men ventured into the land to capture beavers which supplied the world’s gentlemen with beaver hats. These men discovered the southern route around the Rocky Mountains which was relatively flat and could be traversed by wagons. This path crossed the Continental Divide at a place identified as South Pass. Rain and water from mountain springs east of this point flowed to the Atlantic Ocean while water originating west of this point flowed to the Pacific Ocean.

In the mid-1840’s, explorer John C. Fremont published a pamphlet detailing the passage west via what was later dubbed The Oregon Trail. Each year that followed, more and more people migrated to the rich, free land in the Oregon Territory. The land between the Missouri River and the Oregon Territory was designated Indian Territory and Americans could pass through, but could not settle there. However, a number of settlements did exist. These were designated forts, like Fort Laramie, although they were really trading posts that benefited both the American pioneers and the Indians.

When gold was discovered in California in 1849, the number of people traveling west each summer numbered in the thousands.

Morgan replied to Ezra’s question about his birth. “Something like that. My father worked on the original railroad. While it eventually passed well south of Fort Laramie, they originally thought it would follow the Oregon Trail which passed through Fort Laramie. My mother lived in the town while my father worked as a surveyor. When I was three, when the city of Cheyenne was built, we moved there.”

Following the Civil War, the Transcontinental Railroad was constructed and the westward migration exploded.

“I live in Atlantic City now,” Morgan completed his history.

“Ah, such a fine town. A true pearl in this otherwise bleak territory. Have you been to the opera house? Did you know there are over 2000 residents of the sprawling metropolis?” Without waiting for an answer, Ezra continued, “Cheyenne is only slightly larger and only a tenth that number live in Rock Springs.” Ezra coughed. “What is it that brings you here? Prospecting?”

While multitudes of people had crossed the Continental Divide south of the Wind River Mountains, none had settled in the barren land. This was a high altitude plateau, 8,000 feet above sea level, which received virtually no rain. It was the northern edge of what was known as the Great Red Desert. With the completion of the railroad, traffic on the Oregon Trail diminished to a trickle and the land was abandoned to the Indians.

However, in 1868 gold was discovered on the eastern, or Atlantic, side of the mountains north of South Pass and Atlantic City was born. It quickly grew and nearby towns of South Pass City and Miners Delight sprang up.

Morgan answered, “Prospecting of sorts. Most of the mines have played out and normal prospecting is useless. I work for a Frenchman, Mr. Emil Granier. We are building a sluice to bring water from Christina Lake to his mines northwest of Atlantic City.”

“Hmm, an aqueduct to rival those built by the Romans two thousand years ago, eh? But, what is the purpose you intend for the water?”

“Mr. Granier is constructing a new hydraulic mining project.” The matter was a closely held secret. Most people thought the old mine claims were now worthless and Granier was buying the land at cheap prices, but Morgan figured Ezra was not going to tell anyone. Morgan paused for a moment, and then said, “We are a hundred miles from the nearest railroad station. What are you doing here in the Wind River Mountains?”

Despite its metropolitan status, the only transportation into Atlantic City was via stagecoach from Rock Springs, a hundred miles around the desert.

“Ah, yes, well you see I’d been a freewheeling bachelor, but my whore-riding days ended when I met the sweetest woman this side of the Mississippi. I married a few years back and have been living in Rock Springs, but then, I was drawn here by the lure of Gold.” He sighed and drew a painful breath. “I suppose I can tell you the truth; I lost my job with the railroad, but I haven’t told my wife.” He chuckled, groaned with pain, and added, “Now I won’t have to confess my failing as a provider. I was planning on moving my family back East to look for work, but thought I would try my hand at getting rich quick, like your Frenchman.”

Morgan regretted his statement about the failing prospecting business. “Family? Where’s your family now?” He imagined he would eventually have to find them and tell them of Ezra’s demise.

“My wife Abigail and son Ben are living in South Pass. For the time being, she is working in the General Store. I say, my good man, can I implore upon you the task of passing on my belongings to them. I have a fine horse tied up top.” Ezra raised a weary hand and pointed to the overhead ridgeline of the canyon. “There’s no reason the poor beast should be left to the wolves. I had a rifle, but I don’t know what became of it when I fell.”

“Of course, I’ll take care of it.” Morgan’s mind ran though the long trek necessary to get to the top of the cliff. Once Ezra died, he would have to hurry to get there before dark. The horse left helplessly tied to a tree and alone would not last long after dark.

“So, Morgan, I bet we crossed paths a time or two in Cheyenne. I imagine we might have sat on neighboring barstools; perhaps we even once spoke to each other. And, here we are together so very far away.”

“Yes, there aren’t many people in Wyoming. I was last in Cheyenne two years ago. So, we almost certainly crossed paths when you were living there three years ago.” Apparently Ezra could not see Morgan well enough to notice his youthful age. Morgan would have been 17; while he and Ezra might have crossed paths on the street, Morgan would not have been sitting on any barstools when he was that young. His father had allowed Morgan and his brother to partake whiskey at home, but he would never allow the youngsters to enter a saloon.

“Where else have you lived?” Ezra asked.

“Atlantic City and Cheyenne are the only places I’ve lived. I’ve been in many other places for short periods of time — Bessemer Bend, Medicine Bow, a couple of other cow towns.”

“Medicine Bow I know well. There’s a fine whorehouse across the street from the train depot. Have you been there?”

“The Cow Boy Saloon,” Morgan said. “I’ve been there.” He had sat at the bar drinking a beer once. He had watched the women dressed in their undergarments encouraging men to go upstairs, but he had not used their services.

“Yes, that’s the one.” Ezra winced with pain and drew several short, quick breaths. “But, what is this other place — Bessemer Bend?”

“As you know, the North Platte River originates in the mountains of Colorado. It flows northward into the center of Wyoming. The place it makes a tight bend and begins flowing eastward is called Bessemer Bend. Because the water makes such a dramatic change in direction, the area has a large deposit of fertile land. It’s the best farm land in all the Territory.

“It’s the oldest town in Wyoming. The Mormons settled there twenty years before the railroad built Cheyenne. They constructed a ferry to help the pioneers on the Oregon Trail cross the river. They made a fine living in the last years of the Trail, but now the Mormons have moved to Salt Lake and the land is a cattle ranch. It’s called the Goose Egg Ranch, but I don’t know why.

“Anyway, since it is centrally located, many people believe it should be the Capital when Wyoming becomes a state.”

“Well, my learned friend, that is simply unthinkable.” Ezra groaned and coughed before continuing, “Cheyenne is the cross roads between the railroad and the stage lines north to Deadwood and south to Denver. All the gold and silver from those mines passes through Cheyenne. This money flow creates rich people, and rich people are entertained by seeing their town as the Capital.”

Morgan had participated in the argument several times around the breakfast table. He was prepared to counter with an argument about the importance of the cattle industry to the Territory, but he decided this was not an efficient expenditure of Ezra’s last words on Earth.

Morgan waited, but Ezra made no additional comment.

“Hey, Ezra, are you all right?”

There was still no response. Morgan strained to see better; there was no movement in the rocks above. The pool of blood under the rock no longer grew in size.

“Goodbye, Mr. Thorne, go with God. I’m going to get your horse now. I’ll take it to your wife.” Morgan waited for several moments, but there was no response. He tightened the grip of his right hand on the rock ledge and released his left hand. He flexed it to encourage the blood flow to return, and then selected another handhold a foot lower. He repeated the maneuver with his right foot. Slowly, he worked his way down the cliff.

“Come on, ole boy, we’ve got a hard ride ahead,” Morgan said to his horse ten minutes later. He mounted Butch and took a long last look at the spot where Ezra lay. And then, he spurred Butch into a trot. They retraced their path southward.

When the slope of the mountainside eased, he encouraged Butch to start climbing. As they neared the cliff, Morgan gave Butch his head and followed the cues of the horse’s ears. They found Ezra’s mare an hour and a half after leaving the dead man.

The two horses snorted at each other as Morgan checked the contents of Ezra’s saddle bags. He would not steal from the new widow, but he wanted to know what cargo he was carrying. If the contents were worthless, he would do nothing to protect them. It would be dark in two hours and Atlantic City was still several hours away. There was a real possibility of being surprised by Indians in the darkness. The bags contained only routine items a man traveling would need.

Holding Butch’s reins in his right hand, and the mare’s reins in his left, they carefully made their way back down the mountain slope to the valley, and the trail to Atlantic City.

Atlantic City was nestled between the hills at the southeastern tip of the Wind River Range. While the surrounding hills were barren, the valley containing the city was lush because the water table was near the surface and wells were easy to dig. It was long after dark when Morgan arrived; however, the city was still alive. The casinos, bars, and hotels were brightly illuminated and scores of people strolled along the streets.

Morgan led the horses to the livery stable where he rented a stall for Butch. The night watchman opened the barn door for their entry.

“Home late are ya, Mr. Sandburg? What’ch got here?” he asked, seeing Ezra’s mare.

“Evening, Mr. Stroud, I found a dead man on the trail. This here’s his horse. Can you keep her for the night? I’ll be taking her to South Pass and his widow in the morning.”

“Sure shoot’n. A dead man? Indians? Want me to get the sheriff?”

“No, it was an accident; fella fell down a cliff prospecting in the wrong place. I expect his widow will organize some men to recover the body.” Morgan implied he found the man dead, and he was grateful Stroud did not query how he knew where the man’s wife lived.

The two men unsaddled the horses. Butch was taken to his familiar stall and Morgan gave him two shovels of oats. He did not brush the horse despite the hard work he had performed. The watchman, Stroud, positioned Ezra’s mare in a vacant stall and fed her.

Morgan flipped a coin into the air which Stroud caught. “Could you please brush them both down? They’ve had a hard day. I’m dead dog tired myself.” Morgan took the two sets of saddlebags and headed across the street to the boarding house where he lived.

In his room, he poured a large helping of whiskey into a glass and stood by the window. He looked down on the alley behind the boarding house, and then he lifted his gaze to the stars. Sipping the strong drink, he thought about what he would say to Ezra’s widow, Abigail. He wondered how old his son, Ben, was.

This story continues with Morgan Meets Abigail:

Copyright ©2023 by S. M. Revolinski All Rights Reserved

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