Empire Read online

  Empire

  On his way out West to find land of his own, Ben Tower finds and rescues beautiful Mattie Sullivan, the lone survivor of a doomed wagon train. Ben and Mattie soon fall in love and plan to travel West to start a new life together.

  But the trail westwards is never easy, and wild animals, greedy ranchers, and flash floods are just a handful of the hazards they encounter, not to mention Ben’s past catching up with him. Will they ever fulfill their dream of establishing their own little empire in the West?

  Empire

  Will Starr

  ROBERT HALE

  © Will Starr 2018

  First published in Great Britain 2018

  ISBN 978-0-7198-2741-9

  The Crowood Press

  The Stable Block

  Crowood Lane

  Ramsbury

  Marlborough

  Wiltshire SN8 2HR

  www.bhwesterns.com

  Robert Hale is an imprint of The Crowood Press

  The right of Will Starr to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him

  in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. This e-book is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  For Carolyn

  With special thanks to

  Phyllis and Becky

  CHAPTER 1

  As he topped the small rise, Ben Tower sat his horse a moment and surveyed the mid-western prairie stretched out before him. The late afternoon breezes formed long, rolling waves in the tall grasses, stretching to the horizon in all directions. He hadn’t seen a tree in over a week, and the relentless monotony of the grasslands had been known to drive some men insane. Lesser men had taken one look at its empty vastness and gone back home.

  To the east, the prairie was vanishing by the day, falling victim to the slow but relentless plow. Trees, once unable to establish roots in the dense grasslands, flourished in the rich soil left by the defeated prairie. But here, the prairie was as untouched and wild as the lone rider who now surveyed it.

  Shading his eyes against the sun, he could make out a few small, white splotches several miles to the west. Another slow-moving train of wagons, probably bound for Oregon or California. He would overtake them later today or early in the morning. Maybe he could trade for some coffee and possibly some beans.

  Tower was a sometimes cowhand, miner, trapper, and scout for the army. He had grown up in the tough streets of Boston and left town two steps ahead of a street gang and a police detective.

  At sixteen years of age, he had fought with a gang member, killed him with his own knife and become a marked man. He had quickly gathered up his few possessions and left in the middle of the night, using the safety of darkness and familiar alleyways to escape.

  He headed first south and then west to Pittsburgh where he secured passage as a deck hand on an Ohio River boat, learning the job by doing it. In St. Louis, he joined an expedition overland north to the Missouri, where he found a flatboat captain needing a strong back to help pole upstream. Six weeks later, he joined a party of trappers and headed for the distant mountains, leaving behind all thoughts of Boston and his former life.

  His flight to the west proved to be a Godsend. He found that he loved the vast wildness of the land and the ways of western men. He hired out as a buffalo skinner and was taught to shoot by an old mountain man named Jim Bridger. He became a skilled marksman with both rifle and handgun, survived four fights with Plains Indians, and had been wounded twice. He wrestled with wiry Indians and learned their takedowns and holds. He learned how to fight with a knife, cutting edge up and razor-sharp. He had once been trapped by an early mountain snow and spent three months in a cabin stocked with several classic books and an old pile of newspapers. He came out well read, but temporarily ill-tempered. He had crossed Death Valley in the summer and survived a prairie fire in a buffalo wallow. Ben Tower was ready for just about anything.

  He was a tall man with broad shoulders and narrow hips. He was aware of women following him with their eyes, but it puzzled him. He wore his hair shoulder-length as was the custom for trappers and buffalo hunters of the time, but, unlike the others, he preferred to be clean-shaven. He was twenty-one years of age and a man full grown.

  He sold his pelts and furs in St. Louis for a good price. With part of his stake he bought tools and the gear a man needs for building a home and out buildings. Leading his string of horses and pack-goods, he was once again headed west, but not to trap. This time it was to find some likely-looking rangeland and build a ranch, a life, and a home.

  Hours later, Tower topped another rise and immediately spotted a lone wagon less than half a mile away. A few miles farther west he could still see the main group, but they hadn’t made much headway and were already halted. In fact, they seemed to be right where he had first spotted them. Maybe they had decided to make early camp. Or maybe there was trouble. They didn’t look properly circled for protection, but perhaps they were just resting the stock. Something was not right, so he saw to his weapons. He waited and watched for a long time. Nothing moved and there was no sound. Finally, and warily, he rode down to check on the lone wagon.

  He was still a few hundred yards away when he smelled death. He pulled up and slowly looked all around, easing his rifle in its scabbard. Nothing moved and there was no sound but the endless rustling of the grass and the creaking of his saddle leather. Nudging his horse forward, he swung wide of the wagon, eyes moving constantly, looking for danger. He saw and heard nothing but a meadowlark questioning his presence. He walked his mount slowly all the way around the wagon and at last halted, not satisfied but unable to spot trouble. Finally, he climbed to the driver’s seat and looked inside. There was a man, a woman, and a small child lying in the wagon bed under blankets. They were all dead at least a day, maybe more.

  ‘You’d best get down from there and stand clear.’ The voice was that of a young woman, behind him and to his left. ‘I’ve a rifle and a sore disposition, so keep that in mind. Now you just step down easy and keep your hand away from that pistol.’

  Tower climbed slowly down and kept his hands in plain sight. He had no doubt that this woman meant just what she said. And how did he fail to spot her? Where had she hidden herself?

  ‘Turn around,’ she said, ‘and be right careful about it.’ There was a great weariness in her voice.

  She was seventeen or eighteen and tall for a girl. Her long, black hair was tangled, her face pale with distress, and her dress badly needed washing, yet she was still strikingly beautiful. She was also holding a near-new rifle but the barrel was wavering and weaving. She looked like she was almost out on her feet.

  ‘Name’s Ben Tower,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m bound for the territories and I spotted this wagon, so I came to investigate. What happened here?’

  ‘Do you have any water?’

  ‘I do. Can I fetch it?’ He gestured with his head in the direction of his horse, carefully keeping his hands raised and his eyes on her rifle.

  She started to speak and then her eyes slowly rolled upward, and she was slumping to the ground when Tower caught her.

  He pillowed her head on his blanket roll and wiped her brow with a dampened bandanna. Her eyes opened, and he held a canteen to her lips. ‘Just a little at a time. Too much and you might get the cramps.’ She nodded and took a few sips. ‘If
you think you still need your rifle, it’s leaning yonder on the wagon wheel.’ He smiled.

  She eyed him warily but said nothing. She sipped some more water and suddenly made up her mind. She began to talk.

  The girl’s family had become sick and kept getting sicker. Finally, when it was obvious that they weren’t getting any better, the other homesteaders, frightened by suspected cholera, took the team so they couldn’t follow and abandoned them. They had also taken the water barrels, reasoning that a dying family had no need for these.

  The girl’s name was Mattie, and although she showed no sign of illness, they had abandoned her too, just in case. Her mother and little brother had died yesterday morning and her father sometime during the night. Mattie had dug a shallow grave, but was too weak from lack of sleep and water to get them out of the wagon.

  Later, while Mattie slept, Tower wrapped them up in their bedding and finished burying them. He said a few words over the graves and when she woke, he got their names, made a marker from the wagon-seat and wired it to a stake. Then he made another sign and posted it on the wagon:

  ‘Cholera. All dead. Keep Away.’

  That warning would keep out any human scavengers until he could return.

  When Mattie woke again, it was early morning. Ben was slicing bacon into a pan and had coffee made. While they ate, he explained that the rest of the train was only a few miles ahead and wasn’t moving. That probably meant they were also sick and unable to proceed.

  ‘I’ll ride on ahead and check on them. You’ll be fine here until I get back.’

  ‘No.’ Her answer was firm. ‘I’d rather risk getting sick than chance being left behind again.’

  Ben looked at her thoughtfully. ‘I suppose you’re right. If you never got sick the first time, you probably won’t now.’

  ‘What about you?’

  Ben grinned. ‘I don’t get sick. I was sick once when I was a boy and I didn’t like it much, so I never allowed it again.’

  By noon, they were approaching the other wagons and by the odor, realized the worst had happened. Leaving Mattie outside the circle holding his horse, Ben looked in each wagon. Everywhere there was death and he found no one alive. In the distance, he spotted a small herd of horses which would be the wagon teams and a few riding horses. He also saw two or three milk cows on a slope to the north. In the west, clouds were beginning to build, and the storm looked like a soaker. That was good news. He needed the rain for what he had to do.

  ‘I’m going to gather up a team to pull all the wagons tight together,’ he told Mattie. ‘After it rains, I’m going to put the bodies in the wagons and burn them.’ Mattie looked at him, shocked. ‘I can’t bury all those folks,’ he explained, ‘we’d run out of food and water long before I finished. Besides, the wagons will carry the sickness too and also need to be burned. This storm will soak the grass so it won’t catch and start a prairie fire. For now, let’s set up a camp before the rains come.

  ‘I’ll take you back east to your kinfolk. This is no place for a woman alone.’ The rain drummed steadily on the tarp stretched over their small fire and in the distance, lightning flashed silently.

  ‘I have no kin’, she said simply, ‘and no home to go to. Pa sold everything we had for this trip.’ She glanced at Ben. ‘I’ll go with you if you’ll allow it. I have no other choice.’ Ben nodded and added another buffalo chip to the fire.

  ‘I’m not sure where I’m going, Mattie, but I have big plans.’

  ‘One thing,’ said Mattie. She lifted her chin and looked directly at Ben. ‘I am a lady.’

  Ben grinned. ‘Well, I may look rough, Mattie, but beneath the bark, I’m all gentleman.’

  The next morning, with the grass still wet, they poured lamp oil and kerosene on the wagons and set them ablaze. Then they returned to Mattie’s wagon and burned it too. Later, they passed the still-smoldering remnants of the main party of wagons, gathered up the remaining stock, and headed west toward the pale, blue mountains just now showing their faraway peaks on the distant horizon.

  For weeks, they rode west by southwest, fording small streams and swimming larger ones. Several times they spotted buffalo, and twice, Indians, but they kept their distance. ‘They probably think we’re a large party with all this stock,’ Ben said. ‘If they knew it was just one man and a woman, they’d probably try to raid us, but then again, maybe not. They’re notional.’

  The prairie seemed endless, and Mattie found the monotony of the tall grasses disturbing, but Ben seemed at home with it. He was ever vigilant, pausing now and then to watch their back trail. In the late afternoons, he habitually picked out a campsite that they could defend if necessary, and where they could see without being seen.

  Late one afternoon, while Ben was digging a rock out of a hoof, Mattie spoke softly to him from the small hill where she was keeping watch.

  ‘I see some deer to the south. Should I take one?’

  ‘How far off?’

  ‘About two hundred yards.’

  ‘That’s a long shot. Think you can hit one that far off?’

  Mattie glanced at him briefly, and then brought her rifle to her shoulder and fired, all in one easy motion.

  ‘He’s down. We’ll have fresh meat tonight.’

  Ben walked up the slope and followed her pointing finger. The downed deer was at the base of another small hill, and was every bit of two hundred yards away. He found himself staring at Mattie with a new-found respect. She looked up at him, and for the first time since they’d met, she had a small smile on her face.

  ‘Where did you aim?’

  ‘It was a heart shot. I hit where I’m aiming.’

  She was right. The buck had been killed instantly by a bullet through the heart. That night, they had deer liver with some wild onions Ben had found. He butchered the rest of the carcass, and smoked it over his fire. It would help it keep for a few days, and what they did not need he placed on a flat rock.

  ‘Somebody might come along hungry.’

  At her questioning glance, Ben explained.

  ‘We’re probably being watched. There are several Plains tribes around here. This is to let them know I’m aware of them. That way, they won’t think we’re easy prey and will be cautious about attacking us.’

  The land sloped gently but ever upward and after two weeks, they were in the foothills of the great western mountains. The long grasses gradually gave way to scrubby brush and then trees. They were in a magnificent new land and breathtaking beauty was everywhere. They passed streams roaring with whitewater storm runoff and giant bluffs of sheer granite. Daily, they spotted deer and elk and once they saw a large black bear foraging for berries, and gave him a wide berth.

  One cool morning while Mattie cleaned up after a breakfast of bacon, biscuits, and coffee, Ben took his glass and climbed to the brow of the hill to scout the trail. After a few minutes he motioned Mattie to join him. As she approached, he held a finger to his lips for silence. Peering over the crest, Mattie spotted the smoke of a small fire.

  Ben studied the small party camped under a giant cottonwood. That they were Indians, he had no doubt, however, they looked anything but hostile. There was an old man and woman and someone lying on a travois. Their lone horse grazed quietly nearby, and he looked as old as his owners. Ben glassed the surrounding hills for half an hour more but saw no sign. At last he returned to Mattie and mounted.

  ‘They’re Indians that’s certain, but my guess is that they’re in bad shape. We’ll ride on down and see.’

  The Indians heard Ben and Mattie approaching but gave no sign. Ben dismounted and spoke rapidly in Cheyenne. After five minutes of conversation, he returned to Mattie.

  ‘The man on the travois is their son, a warrior. He was wounded in a skirmish with an army patrol and they couldn’t keep up with the rest of the camp. They’re very tired and have no food.’

  Ben walked back to his packhorses and removed a haunch of venison from a deer he had shot earlier. He walked up to t
he old woman and dropped it at her feet. He then bent over the young warrior and lifted his shirt. After a moment, he said something to the warrior and the young man nodded his head weakly, staring at Mattie. He had never seen a white woman and even in his pain, was fascinated.

  ‘The bullet went clear through the fleshy part of his waist. I don’t think it hit anything vital, but it is infected,’ Ben told Mattie. ‘I’ve some powders that an army doctor gave me. I’ll try some on the wound. It may not work but it can’t make it any worse.’

  After pouring the powder into the bullet hole, Ben bound the wound with some cloth bandages the doctor had given him. Then he roped two of the horses they had brought from the doomed wagon train and led them back to the warrior’s camp. He nodded at the Indians and he and Mattie rode off. When they made camp that night, Mattie spoke of the Indians over supper.

  ‘What did they say to you? Did they thank you?’

  ‘They don’t think like white men. They’re probably wondering why we didn’t just kill them and take their horse. They certainly would have. They answered my questions, but they had none for me.’

  ‘But you helped them anyway?’

  Ben shrugged. ‘Even Indians need help now and then, but their ways are not my ways. I just made it look like I didn’t care one way or the other so as not to shame them. That’s why we rode off and didn’t look back. The way of the Indian is an old way, and a hard way, Mattie, but it’s also a good way. However, it’s a way that is doomed. They’ve roamed this land for thousands of years, foraging and taking buffalo and game where they find it and when they find it. Sometimes they feast and sometimes they starve, but they survive by always moving on.

  ‘To them, the land belongs to everyone and yet to no one. Their real enemy is not the soldier, but the plow and the fence. Farmers, miners, and ranchers are coming, and they will keep on coming until all the land is claimed and all the buffalo killed to make way for the white man’s cattle, his crops, and his fences. It’s not right and it’s also not wrong. It just is.