As he lay restlessly in his room in Leadville, nostrils filled with the fresh wood scent of the new walls and ears filled with the ruckus of the streets beyond them, Alex Gunnison found himself reliving the somewhat bewildering chain of events that had brought him and Brady Kenton to this remarkable town.
The two journalists had been in the midst of a tour of Colorado’s cattle ranches, large and small, their goal a colorful description and depiction of that growing business for the readers of the Illustrated American. Alex found the work fascinating but tiring; at length even the unwearying Kenton seemed eager for a rest, and marked off a Saturday afternoon for a time of leisure.
In the cool luxury of Colorado Springs’s El Paso Club they relaxed, letting their thoughts flow slowly and freely. Tall cool drinks chilled their hands, and the soft cushions of padded chairs made of finely crafted, scroll-topped wood rested their tired backs. The afternoon was waning slowly, lazy seconds ticking off one by one on a beautiful oaken clock replete with carved flamingoes and hung on a wall of sage-green paper. Kenton was reading a cheap novel, as he often did to relax; Gunnison was half dozing, glad to be away from the heat and dust of the cattle ranches. A fly buzzed about in the open window that he faced, making droning, lulling music. Through slowly drooping eyelids Gunnison was gazing through that window at a splendid view of Cheyenne Mountain when he was roused by the opening of the door. One of the El Paso Club employees entered and approached Kenton, letter in hand.
“Delivered only moments ago, sir,” the letter bearer said in what sounded to Gunnison like a poorly faked British accent.
Kenton twitched his broad mustache. “Thank you,” he said.
Kenton began to open the letter. The deliverer remained at his side. When Kenton looked up at him inquiringly, the man smiled and gave a little waggle of his right hand in a none-too-subtle request for a gratuity. Kenton frowned, but the glare in his eyes was almost immediately replaced by a twinkle. Kenton placed his hand into the man’s and pumped vigorously. “Thank you again, sir, and God save the king,” he said.
The letter bearer’s face went dark. “Good afternoon to you, sir,” he said, this time with more South Carolina than Yorkshire in his inflection. He turned on his heel and stalked out.
Kenton finished opening the letter and read silently. When he was done, he gave his mouth a wry twist, raised one brow, and began folding the letter back into the envelope. Gunnison was surprised to see he looked a little pale.
“Is something wrong, Kenton?”
Kenton glanced at him. “No, no. It’s from Victor Starlin…I’ve often wondered whatever happened to him. Haven’t heard from him in years.”
“Starlin? Sounds familiar.”
“I’ve mentioned him to you sometime or other, probably. We served together back in the hostilities.”
“So where is he now?”
“Herding sheep right here in El Paso County. Sheep! It’s not something I would have figured him to ever do. It’s a surprise to hear from him.”
“How did he know you were here?”
“He tracked us down by telegraphing the St. Louis office. He wants very badly for me to come see him.”
“Will I be going along?”
“In this case, perhaps you better stay here and finish up some of those sketches you’ve started.
“Oh.” Gunnison was not eager to work in dull isolation while Kenton was off seeing new and interesting things.
His disappointment must have been detectable in his tone because Kenton looked closely at him. “Oh, hang it all,” he said resignedly, “Come along if you want.”
Gunnison was pleased. “Thanks. I’ve always been interested in sheepherders. It’s an isolated life they live.”
Kenton did not respond. He was staring solemnly at the envelope, deep in thought, his brow furrowed.
“Kenton, are you sure everything is all right?”
“Of course it is, Alex.”
That night as he prepared to go to bed, Gunnison saw Kenton seated in the corner of his own room, the letter open again and lying on the foot of his bed as Kenton cleaned his pistol.
The following morning, the two of them put on their stoutest riding clothes, rented horses at a stable, and set out for Austin’s Bluffs, five miles to the northwest. Their sketch pads and pencils were tucked into saddlebags; their pistols were stashed in their holsters.
A more beautiful ride Gunnison had never experienced. The day was clear and slightly brisk despite the season, and their horses traveled well. Looming to the west were mountains that reached so far into the sky, it seemed they would pierce the floor of heaven. Sky and mountain, together with the wind sweeping across the wild land, created an aura of vastness that was both thrilling and humbling. This was an awesome place, a place where a man might hear distant rolls of thunder from the mountains and for a moment wonder if the rumbling booms were really the footfalls of God himself striding across his own spectacular creation just for the pleasure of it.
So undiminished was today’s view that looking south, the riders could see not only the Sierra Mojada, but also the Spanish Peaks. Gunnison had always loved mountains, particularly the Rockies, and today he was so overcome with their stony beauty that he was all but oblivious to everything else around him. Even Kenton might have been forgotten had he not been singing in his rough but listenable baritone, his voice unfurling across the Colorado countryside. The song was some sort of Texas funeral dirge, but the bright sunlight and the vigor of Kenton’s singing took all the sorrow out of it and made it almost sprightly.
El Paso County was sheep country; within its borders as many as two hundred thousand sheep roamed, grazing on the hills and meadows, surviving remarkably fierce winters. Public lands here could be bought from the government at auctions, the highest bidder winning out, or at a dollar twenty-five an acre. Land could be taken by “preemption,” or through occupation for five years under terms of the Homestead Law. Alternatively, land scrip could be purchased, this scrip representing unclaimed lands offered by the government to Union veterans of the civil conflict. Kenton had explained all these things to Gunnison as they rode out of Colorado Springs. The man was a deep well of such information; he absorbed facts as sand absorbs water. The sheep business, Kenton told Gunnison, was hated by cattlemen, but the fact remained that a man could make good money at it if he could endure the accompanying loneliness and rigors.
Victor Starlin’s letter apparently included directions to his ranch, for Kenton consulted it often, complaining about Starlin’s poor penmanship as he struggled to decipher parts of it. Gunnison offered to help him, but was refused quickly and firmly. Gunnison had noticed how little his partner had told him of the letter’s content and recalled that Kenton initially had planned to make this journey alone. Obviously Starlin had written something Kenton did not want him to know about—and Gunnison set himself in expectation of being sent away from the ranch, probably on some journalistic pretext, so the men could talk alone. His curiosity began to rise about that mysterious letter.
At length they reached the head of a little valley that was overgrown with a yellow-tinged grass and almost entirely lacking trees, and in it saw the sheep ranch of Victor Starlin. There was nothing ostentatious about the ranch: a little double cabin, roughly but sturdily built to survive the heavy snowfalls that sometimes literally buried entire flocks. Sheep corrals were all about the cabin, connected by narrow gated chutes. A smattering of outbuildings stood here and there, and behind the cabin ran a spring. There was no sign of life about the place other than a tiny trickle of smoke rising from the chimney to the sky, coming, he expected, from the remnant coals of the morning’s breakfast fire.
“We may be in for a wait until near nightfall,” Kenton said. “Victor is probably out with his flocks.”
No sooner were the words said, however, than around the back of the farthest shed came a lean booted man wearing a Mexican-style hat and a long lightweight canvas coat. He stopped when he saw the newcomers, pushed up the face-shadowing brim of the hat, looked them over carefully, then waved his hand and started toward them at a trot.
“Victor Starlin?”
“Yes indeed,” Kenton replied. “A sight to see for these tired old eyes.”
He smiled broadly, raised his hand over his head, and waved back at Starlin, and the pair began their descent into the shepherd’s valley.