Tumbleweed Ch. 01

"Yes ma'am," Jake answered. The statement about cleaning up was more like an order than an invitation or suggestion. He dropped his bags on the bench and took off his hat, putting it on the rack. Jake hesitated before undoing his gun belt but finally hung it on the rack too. First time I've had it off since Fort Stockton, he thought. He hurried through the kitchen to the back stoop and quickly washed his face and hands using the pump which sat on a large table. "Place reminds me of a southern plantation house," Jake said softly to himself.

As he returned through the kitchen he watched as Mrs. Stewart and a younger woman fussed around getting the food ready to serve. Jake smiled to himself at the difference between the two women. Amada Stewart was about 5 feet 4 and almost as big around as she was tall.

Jake guessed her age between 50 and 70; it was hard to judge a person's age when they lived in the harsh west Texas weather. If she'd spent a lot of time working outside she could be years younger than she looked. Her gray streaked chestnut colored hair was drawn back into a bun. Amanda moved with the grace of a woman much smaller and the economy of someone who had done this job innumerable times.

The other woman was much younger; Jake judged her to be about 25. She was slender but from the way she carried the different pots, skillets, and large serving bowls she was strong. If she was a man you'd call her wiry, he thought. When she turned toward him, Jake saw a pair of cornflower blue eyes to go with the strawberry blond hair.

"This is Emily Santee Mr. Hightower." Ma Stewart said. "Emily this is Jake Hightower; our new boarder."

The young woman nodded at Jake and returned to getting supper ready for the table. He returned the nod and watched her for a few more seconds before he headed toward the dining room. Fine looking woman, he thought as he took a seat at the table with the other guests.

The dining room table was carved wood and very large; it could seat twelve comfortably. The table, its matching chairs and a six foot long sideboard with a granite top were pretty much the only furnishings. Large floor to ceiling windows gave light during the day and there were several coal oil lamps hanging on the walls to provide light for the evening meal.

"Howdy," greeted one of the men at the table as Jake sat down. "Name's Jim Bishop and this is Enrique De La Vega," he said motioning to the other man.

"Jake Hightower. Good to meet you Mr. Bishop, Senor De La Vega."

"What brings you to El Paso, if you don't mind my askin," Bishop said.

"Don't mind at all," Jake replied. "I'm setting up a trade route and going to use El Paso as my base."

"You're a salesman then," De La Vega offered in slightly accented English.

"Yep, that's me, just a traveling drummer."

Ma Stewart and Emily came through the swinging door that led to the kitchen with their arms and hands full large serving bowls and a big platter of fried chicken. They set the feast on the table but neither Bishop nor De La Vega reached for the food. Jake also held back to see what was proper.

When the ladies had finished serving and sat down, Ma Stewart bowed her head and said Grace. "Gentlemen, supper is served," she said after her Amen.

"I sell ladies notions and supplies to general stores across west Texas," Bishop said. "Enrique there raises and trades horses. His ranch is just south of Juarez."

Jake nodded and said, "Like to look at your stock Senor De La Vega. Gonna need a good saddle horse; the one I have is a decent mount but I want something special."

"I would be happy to show you what I have at your convenience Senor Hightower." De La Vega somehow managed to bow while sitting down.

"What's you line Mr. Hightower?" Bishop asked.

"I work for Colt Firearms," Jake replied.

Bishop nodded toward the rack where Jake had hung his gun belt. "Thought that was a mighty fancy rig for a cowboy," he said.

Jake smiled. "Yes sir, that gun's special. Got to have something to show to customers, don't you know? If you like, after supper I'd be happy to show it to you and Senor De La Vega. Who knows? You might be my first sale in the new territory."

"Enough talk of guns gentlemen," Ma Stewart ordered. "Now y'all eat before it gets cold."

After everyone had served themselves, Emily took the bowls and platters of food off the table; putting them on the side board. Anyone that wanted seconds would go to the sideboard to refill their plate. Just as Jake picked up a drumstick, a whirling dervish came charging through the swinging door from the kitchen.

"Sorry I'm late Ma, Aunt Amanda," Jeremiah said. His face was damp and his hair was slicked back from washing up. He wiped his not quite dry hands on his breeches as he came to the table. "Mr. Moore just got back and I had a customer come in and I had to take care of his horses."

Jeremiah looked up and saw the customer he'd talked about. "Hi Jake, see you took my advice."

"Howdy Jeremiah. Yes I did and from the looks of this supper it was the right thing to do." So Mrs. Santee is the boy's mother, he thought. I wonder where Mr. Santee is.

Jeremiah walked over, kissed his mother's cheek and handed her several coins; Jake saw a ten dollar gold piece among them. "Mr. Moore gave me my wages from last week," he explained.

Emily looked at the coins in her hand and smiled. "You had a very good week; I'm proud of you." She motioned toward Jake and said, "But I think you should address him as Mr. Hightower; I've taught you to respect your elders."

"Mrs. Santee, if I may?" Jake offered. "Jeremiah and I have done business together and will probably do more. Your son is a first rate trader and I like to use given names with the men I've learned to respect. So if you don't mind, I'd be proud for the boy to call me by my given name."

Emily looked at Jake for a few seconds and then she smiled. "Well, I suppose it would be fine. Thank you Mr. Hightower."

Same applies to you ma'am, Jake added silently to himself.

After supper Bishop, De La Vega, and Jake stepped out onto the front porch for a cigar; Jake took his gun belt with him. Jeremiah had started to follow but his mother reminded him that he had lessons to work on.

"Aw Ma," he complained. "I already know how to read and do my sums. I want to see Jake's pistol."

Grinning, Emily lightly swatted Jeremiah on the rump. "Go do your lessons." The boy walked slowly to the bedroom he and his mother shared, like the weight of the world was on his shoulders.

"It's a Colt Single Action Army .45, better known as a Peacemaker," Jake said as he pulled the pistol from its holster. He quickly unloaded the pistol and handed it to Bishop. The drummer nodded and passed it on to De La Vega; it was obvious that Bishop wasn't really comfortable with fire arms. De La Vega on the other hand looked like he was familiar with pistols. He worked the action and tested the trigger pull without dry firing the weapon.

Jake smiled to himself at the differences between Bishop and De La Vega. Bishop looks to be about 40, Jake thought. The salesman was just 2 inches over 5 feet. The best way to describe his body was to call him round. His hair consisted of a fringe of salt and pepper that surrounded the bald crown of his head.

In spite of his grandfatherly appearance he wasn't soft. The way Bishop held himself, the way he talked and the short almost jerky gestures showed that this was a man that had seen the "bear" on more than one occasion.

Turning his attention he De La Vega, Jake saw the perfect example of a Spanish aristocrat. He doesn't look to be but a few years older than me, Jake thought. That is until you see his eyes; those eyes have also seen the "bear" and dealt with it.

De La Vega was an inch or so taller than Jake with a whip cord slim build. His hair was black as the night and he wore a pencil thin mustache that almost gave him a sinister look . The experienced looking eyes were surprising in that they were a light gray. Jake learned later they were a gift from his Anglo grandmother.

His natural light brown complexion had been darkened by the many years working out in the weather. His movements were easy and fluid giving the man a grace not matched by many in this part of Texas. The manner of his speech was polite and showed his education. Man's more than a simple ranch owner, Jake finished his thought.

"This one has a 5 and a half inch barrel and a nickel finish for show," Jake told them. "You can also get it in 4 ½ and 7 ½ inch barrel lengths and in a blued finish."

"I don't know all that much about hand guns," Bishop said. "But isn't that barrel a bit short for everyday carry?"

Jake smiled. "I need to show my customers how fast you can get the Colt out of the holster and its accuracy."

"You're a gun hand then?" Bishop asked.

"I guess you could say that," Jake answered with a frown. "I was a deputy sheriff in Fort Smith so I had to know how to handle a gun." With a sad smile and a grimace he added, "Fort Smith had a nick name of "Hell on the Border" that it earned during and just following the Civil War."

His thoughts drifted back to the events that caused him to leave Fort Smith. A rancher and his five hands had just finished a cattle drive and as usual the cowboys were celebrating in a local saloon. The saloon keeper sent his swamper to get the deputy because the cowhands had gotten a bit too rowdy. They began shooting at the spittoons on the floor in front of the bar. The men also shot at the piano over the piano player's shoulders; encouraging him to play faster and better.

Jake was on duty that night and hurried to the saloon. He didn't really expect too much trouble; usually the appearance of the Sheriff or a Deputy was enough to calm men down. This time it wasn't.

Walking into the saloon, Jake saw two men lining up their pistols to shoot at the piano; the other three men he'd been told about were nowhere in sight. "I think you've had about enough fun boys. Holster your guns," Jake ordered in a commanding voice.

Both men turned. "It's the law," one of them said.

"So what," his companion replied. "I don't intend for some two bit deputy to stop my fun."

Jake stood with his 10 gauge coach gun propped on his hip. "Holster your guns," he ordered again.

The men were standing with their arms at their sides; each man holding a gun. One man, followed by the other, raised their weapons toward Jake. The men were not gunfighters and extended their guns at arm's length to shoot instead of firing from the hip. Jake dropped the barrel of his shotgun toward the men and fired. The shotgun jumped in his hands as he fired both barrels and the two cowboys went down.

"You son of a bitch," Jake heard from behind the bar just before a bullet hit him creasing his side and turned him toward the bar; another bullet narrowly missed him. He saw two more of the cowhands standing behind the bar with their pistols pointed at him.

Jake dropped the shotgun and drew his Remington .44, firing as it cleared the holster. Both men went down and a third head rose from its hiding place behind the bar. The young man had his weapon raised but not pointed at Jake.

"Don't do it son," Jake said. "Put the gun on the bar and step back."

The youngster looked at his four friends and then back at Jake. "You killed them," he said in surprise.

"They didn't give me any choice son. Don't you make the same mistake. Put the gun down."

The boy looked again at his friends and screamed. He brought his pistol up and toward Jake. "Don't," yelled Jake and when the boy didn't stop, Jake's Remington roared again. The young man fell to join his companions on the floor.

Jake checked on the men, kicking away their weapons. When he came to the youngster, a sadness came over him. The boy had been hit in the chest and there was no doubt that he was dead.

"Damn kid can't be more than 16," he said, more to himself than to anyone else.

Jake had the bartender send for the undertaker. He stopped at the doctor's to have his wound cleaned and bandaged. The doctor wanted Jake to stay at his office for a while, just to be on the safe side.

"Hell Doc, I've cut myself worse shavin," Jake insisted and went back to his own office.

The next morning when Sheriff Timmons came in, Jake handed him his deputy's star. "I'm done Tom," he told his boss. "I killed a 16 year old boy last night."

"From what I heard, the boy didn't give you a choice Jake. You had to protect yourself; nothing else you could do."

"I could have shot him in the shoulder when he popped up from behind the bar with that gun in his hand. He would have been messed up some but at least he'd still be alive." Jake walked toward the door. "See you around Tom."

Two weeks later, Jake saw the advertisement in the paper and sent a telegram to the Colt Firearms Manufacturing Company.

********************

"I think I would like to see the pistol in action," De La Vega said. "Perhaps when you look at my horses you could show me." His words brought Jake back to the present. The Mexican smiled and added, "If I buy one I will be the envy of my men and my neighbors."

Jake smiled to himself. Got my first customer before I even got started in the new territory, he thought. He and De La Vega talked about price and when the delivery of his gun could be expected. Customers would have to wait for their purchase to be shipped from the factory in Connecticut; Jake didn't part with his samples nor the gun he carried.

"At your convenience Senor De La Vega."

"I am returning to my hacienda tomorrow Senor Hightower; you are welcome to ride with me. My estancia is just across the border in Zaragoza; it is an easy morning's ride. "

"It would be my pleasure Senor; I'll meet you at the livery at first light."

To Be Continued