Only the Stubborn Survive Read online

  Other Western Titles by R. W. Stone

  Trail Hand (2015)

  Across the Río Bravo (2017)

  Canadian Red (2018)

  Badman’s Pass (2018)

  No Rest for the Restless (2020)

  Copyright © 2019 by R. W. Stone

  E-book published in 2019 by Blackstone Publishing

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced

  or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the

  publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental

  and not intended by the author.

  Trade e-book ISBN 978-1-9825-9506-7

  Library e-book ISBN 978-1-9825-9505-0

  Fiction / Westerns

  CIP data for this book is available from the Library of Congress

  Blackstone Publishing

  31 Mistletoe Rd.

  Ashland, OR 97520

  www.BlackstonePublishing.com

  This book is dedicated to those who serve.

  Like the Spartans at Thermopylae,

  heroes stand their ground so that others

  may continue to live in freedom.

  “Wars may be fought with weapons, but they are won by men. It is the spirit of the men who follow and of the man who leads that gains the victory.”

  General Patton

  Cavalry Journal (9/33)

  Prologue

  A pair of horsemen rode silently across the barren landscape toward a far destination. Even though the prairie that surrounded them stretched out like a vast, untamed ocean, these men did not veer from their course. Both of the riders were experienced and trail-wise. They knew all too well that while such terrain might appear flat and empty, it was merely an illusion.

  Believing that in a great expanse of country such as this there would be ample time to spot any unexpected danger was tenderfoot thinking. Both of these two horsemen knew fully well there were hundreds of small arroyos, gullies, buffalo wallows, and plant-filled overgrowths that could easily hide an enemy. One who might be waiting to rob or, worse yet, kill and take one’s scalp.

  Perhaps to the inexperienced this pair might have appeared relaxed and unaware as they rode along, but nothing could have been further from the truth. Their slouched bodies were merely a Westerner’s way of riding great distances on horseback without strain, and a closer look would have revealed that neither of the two men’s eyes ever stopped moving. Both scanned the horizon, the ground in front of them, and their back trail, for not to do so out here often meant certain death.

  One of the two riders was young and tall. His names was Red Smith. He was thin and clean-shaven, with a head of red hair. He wore a smooth brown leather vest, a pinched-crown Stetson, and on his waist was a wide cartridge belt and tooled holster combination known by some as a buscadero rig. He was mounted on a chocolate roan, a term often used to describe this horse’s unique coloration. His cayuse had a solid rusty brown mane and tail, but the rest of the animal’s body was freckled throughout with dirty brown and white hairs intermingled.

  Again, to the untrained eye, the younger man’s bronc might have seemed a mite scrawny, but this once-wild mustang was sinewed and muscular, not to mention exceptionally surefooted. Wilderness bred, he had the sprint of a jackrabbit and the endurance of a camel.

  Al Thornton, the young rider’s partner, was into his fifties and far from clean-shaven. In fact, his beard practically hung down to his chest and looked more like a bird’s nest than facial hair. He was riding a Roman-nosed bay. He carried a .45-caliber Peacemaker, like his companion. His pistol, however, was worn in a holster that was nothing more than an old, cut- down boot top that years earlier had been sewn closed at its narrow end and trimmed away at an angle at the top. Unlike the younger rider’s fancy ivory-handled gun, the older man’s six-shooter had plain wooden grips that were well worn from age and use.

  Even though he might be older, unkempt, and grizzled, Thornton had ridden the river a time or two and seen the elephant in his day. He wasn’t particularly famous, but in reality he was one of the fastest shootists west of the Mississippi.

  They were both Texas Rangers.

  Chapter One

  Red’s life had started out precariously when the wagon train his family was traveling with was attacked by a band of hostile renegade Indians. Along with the rest of the train, his parents had been killed. But, fortuitously, when the Indian attack started, the baby’s mother had quickly wrapped him in a blanket and then stashed the infant in a patch of bramblebushes.

  How long that infant child remained in the bushes is anyone’s guess, but luckily and soon enough, an old prospector was walking along with his burro and her newborn foal when he heard the baby’s cries and rescued him. The child was nursed with the donkey’s milk and not only survived but thrived. There was nothing that could identify the baby’s family in the remains of the wagon, and since the prospector had found the redheaded baby near the Red River, he simply decided to name the boy Red.

  For years thereafter the two traveled everywhere together through the Western territories. And in spite of the fact that they shared no actual familial blood, the Old Man learned to love him as if he were truly his very own son, and he took joy in watching him grow up.

  The prospector taught the boy to fish and trap and how to read sign. Red memorized every rock and gully of the West through which they roamed, a skill he was encouraged to develop by that old prospector. The Old Man also showed him how to track and hunt, and for many years the pair had very little to complain about.

  It was a good life for Red and the old prospector, except for an occasional encounter with hostile Indians, the periods of drought, and times when food of any kind was scarce. Even so, the boy grew up strong and happy. He knew of no other way of living, nor did he wish for one. Life, however, like a wild river, has a nasty way of changing course when you least expect it.

  When Red was fourteen years old, he and the Old Man traveled to a spot the prospector had once heard about near the southern foothills of the Rocky Mountains. After setting up camp near a small cave, the Old Man began to make a fire while the boy looked around for some kindling wood. Red climbed up an overhanging cliff and was right above the cave entrance when his foot suddenly tripped on a loose rock, which in turn caused a minor rockslide.

  Looking down to check on the Old Man, Red was startled to see him sprawled face down in the dirt. Fearing the worst, the boy rushed quickly to his side. When Red turned the old prospector over, he was surprised and relieved to find that not only was the man alive, but he was laughing. What confused the boy was that the Old Man had an expression on his face that suggested what could only be described as a state of pure unbridled ecstasy.

  The rockslide had opened a crack at the base of the cliff revealing what prospectors call a glory hole. In other words, it was a rocky pocket filled with nuggets of pure gold. It wasn’t a vein that ran very deep or very far, but the gold found there in that hole was enough to set the old wanderer and his adopted son up for the rest of their lives.

  It took the pair almost two weeks to clean out that pocket before they finally headed back to civilization. The old prospector had spent his whole life searching for such wealth, and now that it was right there in his hands, a sense of melancholy began to set in.

  “Something wrong?” the boy asked, puzzled. “You seem more quiet than usual.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing, Red. Just the ruminations of a tired old man.”
>
  “What’s there to ruminate about?” the boy asked. “Tell me, I want to know.”

  The old man thought a good spell before answering. “Well, Red, it’s like this. I done spent my whole life looking for just what we got in them bags. Now that I finally got it, I sort of feel . . .” The prospector stopped and stared off into the distance.

  “What?” the boy urged.

  “Well, I don’t rightly know for sure. Don’t know how’s to explain it to you. I expect I should still be dancing up and down for joy like I was when that hole opened up.”

  “But you’re not,” Red said, even more confused.

  “Nope,” the man replied, shaking his head slowly. “And that’s the strange part. Maybe it wasn’t the reward I was after all along. I reckon now it was the journey I enjoyed most. You know . . . the quest.”

  “Quest,” Red repeated.

  “A quest is . . . well, it’s like a mission. It’s the mystery and the thrill of the search all rolled into one, so to speak. Now that it’s all over, I guess I’m sort of sad.”

  Red thought that over for a minute. “But that don’t mean you can’t have a new . . . what was it you called it . . . quest, does it? Maybe now that we got some money, we can do new and more exciting things. Ever thought about it like that?”

  The Old Man considered it as they rode along and then smiled. He seemed to perk up a bit. “Maybe you’re right, Red. I never did believe it was healthy to be looking back or crying over spilt milk.”

  “What was it you once said to me? Every time you take a fork in the road, look on it as a new adventure. Don’t be a-going through life a-whining about not taking the other road or worrying about all the what-ifs.”

  “I said that?” The old prospector laughed. “Sounds like purty good advice.”

  “Sounded that way to me at the time,” Red said, laughing. “So, now that we’re through being all disappointed in how bad life is treating us, why don’t we get back to civilization and enjoy some good food.”

  “Now who’s the teacher and who’s the pupil?” the Old Man said, chuckling as they continued on southeast.

  “So how far to the town we’re headed for?” the boy asked.

  “I reckon we should be there in about two weeks, iffen we continue on at this pace.”

  “Well, let’s get at it then,” Red replied cheerfully. “We’re burning sunlight.”

  * * * * *

  As they rode along over the next couple of weeks, the pair told each other all their secret desires as they pondered what having that much gold would let them do.

  Red talked about getting a fine new horse and a fancy saddle. “A new hat and a pair of boots would be nice too, don’t you think?”

  “You sure could use them, but no sense thinking small with this much in the poke,” the Old Man remarked.

  “What did you have in mind, then?” Red asked.

  “Well, I never was one for settling down, but right now I’m beginning to think having a nice house outside of a town might not be so bad. Nothing too fancy, but one with all the fixin’s.” The prospector came from a relatively well- off family, but he had chucked it all when he refused to take over his father’s business. He had headed West years ago and never looked back.

  “Sure you want to plant yourself in just one spot?” the boy asked, never having known anything other than living out in the open. As long as he could remember, they had never stayed in one spot long enough to even remember its name.

  “Well, nothing says we still cain’t take trips or wander off whenever we want,” the prospector said. “Right?”

  “True enough,” Red replied, nodding in agreement.

  Mostly out of habit, the Old Man scratched his beard. “It’s just that the thought of always having some place permanent to come back to seems a mite attractive to me all of a sudden.”

  “Nothing wrong with having dreams, I guess,” Red remarked.

  “Hell’s bells, Son, with this much money it don’t have to be a dream no more, now does it?” The prospector was becoming more animated.

  The boy smiled. “No, I guess it don’t. Can you hire a person to cook for you with this much money?” he asked.

  The Old Man laughed. “ ’Course you can. But why would we do that?”

  “Well, I’m the one who has had to eat your cooking all these years,” Red couldn’t help but smile, ”and the few times we’ve partaked of food in a town . . . well, it tasted gosh-darned good.”

  “No one puts a gun to your head at suppertime, you know,” the Old Man said with a smile, but Red thought he saw hurt behind his eyes.

  The back and forth banter may have become part of their daily routine, but it was all just good-natured fun to help pass the time while out on the trail.

  * * * * *

  Many days later the pair rode into Baker’s Gap. It was a typical small Western town that had sprung up on the map. It was named after Eldrich Baker. A small time cowman, Baker had left the Chisum Trail halfway along and then wandered with his fifty head of cattle until he found a green valley that he thought might just suit his purpose. Eventually, a town had sprung up outside his now burgeoning spread, and over the years both the ranch and the nearby town had grown and prospered pretty well.

  Eldrich Baker died young, during a cattle stampede, and out of gratitude for his generosity and strong work ethic, the town elders decided to rename the place after him. Since then, it had grown to include both citizens of relatively decent morals as well as a small element of drifters and vagabonds who weren’t quite so virtuous. Inevitably, a couple of saloons opened up, as well as a large gambling house.

  It was late in the morning when the Old Man and Red finally pulled up in front of the town bank.

  “Why we stopping here?” the boy asked. “Shouldn’t we drop the animals off at the livery and then find some place for the night first?”

  “You forgetting what we got in them bags of ours?” the Old Man replied at a whisper. “Son, you just ain’t had enough time being around citified people as you should have.”

  “What’s that got to do with it?” Red asked. “If you’re worried, we can just carry the saddlebags with us, can’t we?”

  “And have every passerby wonder why two strangers who rode in with donkeys, pickaxes, and shovels are walking around with bags so heavy, they’s all bent over. Now that would sure enough be an invitation to a stickup if there ever was one. Nope, the bank’s gonna be our first stop. That’s the smart move.”

  “Makes sense,” Red said, pondering what he had been told. “Guess I just wasn’t thinking.”

  “Well, from now on you’ll have to,” the Old Man advised. “When a person has a lot of money, he has to be a step or two ahead of the other fellow who is right anxious to take it away from him.”

  So the pair dismounted and tied their stock up at a hitching rail located in front of the Baker’s Gap Savings and Loan.

  “Now you stay here with the bags till I call for you. Keep an eye on things, and don’t talk to no one,” the Old Man ordered. “Take your rifle out of the scabbard, and keep it right alongside your leg. Anything even smells suspicious, you yell out for me.”

  Red glanced around the town and then looked back at the Old Man. The boy was somewhat perplexed. After all, they had just ridden for many days with the gold right where it was without a problem of any kind.

  “What you worried about? Everything seems peaceful around here, don’t it?” he asked.

  “Out there on the trail, you can see trouble a mile away,” the prospector explained, pointing back the way they’d come, “but here in town things can change lickety-split. Out there no one knows your business, but in a town like this, iffen you sneeze, twenty people will bless you right off, and within an hour everyone else will be asking how your nose is doing.”

  “I think you’re worrying too
much,” Red said.

  “Maybe so,” the Old Man nodded, knowing the boy wouldn’t let anyone near the bags, “but you stay alert anyhow. This might take a bit of time.”

  The lad waited for about half an hour before the Old Man finally emerged from the bank.

  “Come on, Red, help me get these bags offen the burro and into the bank.”

  When the boy entered the bank building, the first thing he noticed was a small elevated platform at the far corner of the room where a man, dressed in black, was perched in a big wooden chair. The man was staring at the front door and had on a pair of crossed pistols in a black leather holster. He also had a double-barreled shotgun lying sideways across his lap.

  A bank teller came out and helped the two carry the gold through an archway and down a short hallway that led to a large iron safe. It had the thickest door the boy had ever seen and had a large metal wheel sunk right into it.

  The Old Man explained: “The manager tells me they ordered this special safe door all the way from Chicagy, Illinois. Says it took them two weeks to build it in and that there ain’t nothing more secure anywhere in the whole territory.”

  After putting the gold bags inside the safe, the pair went back out through that same steel door. Red followed the Old Man over to a section of the bank where two large desks were located. Seated at one of them was a middle-aged, balding man wearing a pair of thin-framed gold spectacles. He was dressed in a gray suit coat with a black and silver vest. Red noticed a thin gold chain hanging from the man’s vest pocket and wondered what was attached to it.

  “Now then,” the banker said to the Old Man, “Mr. Smith, we need to have you both sign these documents before we proceed.”

  Red was confused. “Who’s Mr. Smith?” he asked, looking around to see who was behind him.

  “I am,” the Old Man explained. “Ain’t been no reason to tell you my name all these years. It’s Luke Smith, Son, and this here is Mr. Jacob Reilly. He runs this place. He’s going to take care of our gold.”