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Hap & Cal
On the Trail of Stewart Clayton
Chapter Two: Trailing Stewart Clayton
Scott A. Gese

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Chapter Two

Trailing Stewart Clayton

Stewart Clayton had a reputation, and it was entirely negative—a package of nothing but pure meanness. Originally from Oklahoma, he was the third of six children. For the first ten years of his life, his parents barely acknowledged his existence, too busy trying to scratch out a living on a small parcel of fertile but hard-working soil that needed to feed a family of eight. Little attention was given to any of the children until they were old enough to work the farm. Stewart was a troublemaker from the moment he was cut loose from his mother’s apron strings. For his tenth birthday, his parents gifted him hard labor—a loveless present more readily accepted by his older siblings than by Stewart himself.

His father believed it was a good idea, but it didn’t turn out that way. Even at a young age, Stewart showed signs of a life of crime, committing mostly minor offenses like lying and stealing egg money from the neighbor's kitchen cupboard. He had a knack for finding the easy way to do things, not caring if someone got hurt in the process. Life revolved around Stewart Clayton, and for better or worse, he ensured that all his neighbors knew his name.

Stewart received his first gun at the age of twelve. A neighbor’s boy had stealthily taken it from his father’s bedroom when no one was watching. He made the mistake of showing it to Stewart, who quickly seized it and threatened to blow the kids brains out if he told anyone. That frightened the boy into silence, and his father never discovered what happened to the gun. Stewart used it whenever he could get his hands on ammunition, sending dogs and cats running for their lives whenever he carried it loaded.

Inevitably, Stewart would discover how easy it was to make a living with a gun. At age fourteen, he encountered a traveler just outside of town. The stranger was chatty, and struck up a conversation. As they talked, Stewart pulled out the gun and began fiddling with it. The traveler grew nervous and tried to distance himself with a lame excuse, but it was too late. Stewart pointed the revolver at him and demanded his money. The traveler, underestimating Stewart, refused, believing he wouldn’t pull the trigger. That was a fatal mistake. In Stewart's eyes, people were no different than a cat or dog; pulling the trigger on a man was just as easy. That day marked the beginning of Stewart Clayton's new career as a thief and a murderer.

He first caught the attention of the law when he began robbing drovers returning to Texas after delivering their cattle. Most of them carried four months’ worth of cash in their pockets. Stewart used the point of his gun to relieve them of it in a matter of minutes. Anyone who resisted was shot without hesitation. Some tried, and most died. While he wasn’t the only one robbing unsuspecting drovers, he was by far the meanest of the bunch.

Stewart Clayton's downfall stemmed from his ego. Instead of keeping a low profile, he openly bragged to his victims, telling them who he was and boasting about his exploits. He relished the drovers; they were his meat and potatoes—“Easy pickins',” he would brag repeatedly.

Though Stewart ventured beyond the Chisholm Trail from time to time, he always returned. His biggest blunder was the day he robbed a stage just north of Wichita, killing several passengers and marking himself as a man out of control, in dire need of being reined in. One of the victims was a wealthy woman whose husband had influence and political connections. The incident angered many people, including those with the power and money to take action. At the time, Stewart had no idea that the killing would unleash a hornet's nest of fury against him. He quickly learned and found himself on the run. He knew he needed to lay low for a while. A reward fund had been established by the dead woman’s husband, and the price on his head would be too tempting for some to pass up. Bounty hunters would surely come out of the woodwork looking to cash in on the prize.

His only hope was to throw any pursuers off his trail quickly. The method he devised wasn't particularly clever; it wouldn’t fool a seasoned bounty hunter. But for the shallow mind of Stewart Clayton, it seemed brilliant. Since he was already heading toward Fort Scott, he decided to drop a few breadcrumbs along the way to indicate his destination, figuring anyone on his trail would pick up on the clues and remain unaware. Then, before reaching Fort Scott, he would turn south and backtrack toward familiar territory in Oklahoma.

The strongbox from the stage robbery had yielded a pleasant surprise. A sack of gold coins. He scattered several papers he deemed worthless to the wind. At first chance he had counted out the coins, estimating their total value at about a thousand dollars.

***

Hap Freeman and Cal Collins set out from Wichita toward Fort Scott, now on the hunt for Stewart Clayton. Along the trail, they had heard rumors from various sources suggesting that their target, or someone claiming to be Stewart Clayton, was heading in the same direction. Hap believed no man in his right mind would claim to be this wanted criminal, and from what he had gathered, the man had a massive ego. He also had a bad habit of letting his victims know who was robbing them. Stewart Clayton was certainly making a name for himself. Shooting a woman in cold blood brought him a lot of attention—most would consider it unwanted, but not Stewart; he relished it.

Hap and Cal were two days out of Wichita when the trail suddenly grew cold. They questioned everyone they encountered, but no one had seen him. It seemed their man had suddenly gone quiet, which made no sense given the noise he had been making up to that point.

As the sun began to set, the two men decided to make camp for the night. They welcomed a fire that warmed their evening meal and a pot of strong coffee. With cups in hand, Hap and Cal discussed their next move.

Cal pondered the situation. “I don't get it, Hap. Why would a man who wanted everyone to know who he was suddenly—just like that,” he snapped his fingers for emphasis, “go silent? We haven't heard a word for a full day. It makes no sense.”

“I don't understand it either, Cal,” agreed Hap. “He made everyone he met along the trail aware of who he was, and then... nothing!”

Silence fell as both men contemplated the matter. Cal got up and refilled their cups with steaming coffee before sitting back down near the fire. After a moment, Cal spoke up again.

“Do you think you might have been wrong?”

“Wrong about what?” asked Hap defensively.

“I'm not questioning your judgment, Hap. I just wonder if you might have received bad information?”

“Bad information?” questioned Hap. “How many people did you hear say that Stewart Clayton was heading toward Fort Scott?”

“You're right,” Cal acknowledged. “I heard it too. But that's what doesn't make sense to me. Why would he brag to everyone he met that he was going to Fort Scott, especially knowing he'd be trailed? And then, just like that, shut his trap tighter than a hair in a biscuit?”

“Well, let's put ourselves in his boots for a minute,” replied Hap. “If I were in his position, I wouldn't make a beeline for somewhere and announce my destination to everyone along the way. That would be stupid.”

“Well, we are talking about a stupid man here, Hap,” Cal replied, taking a gulp of his coffee.

“True,” agreed Hap. “But he may not be a total idiot. What if he was just trying to lead us away from his true destination? What if the sudden silence isn’t because he shut his trap, but because he left the trail? What if he doubled back on us?” Hap reasoned.

“You think he might be coming back to Wichita?” asked Cal.

“No, not to Wichita. That would be moronic.” Hap rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I'm thinking someplace more familiar. If I were playing cat and mouse, I'd want to do it on familiar ground—in Oklahoma, not Kansas.”

“Oh, yeah, I heard he was an Oklahoma boy,” Cal began to catch on. “You might be onto something, Hap. So how do we play this? Do we take our chances with Fort Scott, or do we change direction and head toward Oklahoma?”

“I guess that depends on how serious we are about catching this scoundrel,” remarked Hap. “Oklahoma is a bit further than I was hoping to go. I wanted to wrap this up in a couple of weeks. If we follow our hunch, it’s going to take a lot longer, no doubt.”

“Are you thinking of giving it up?” Cal asked bluntly. “What else do you have to do with your time?”

“Not a damn thing,” Hap confessed. “Not a damn thing.”

Relieved that Hap wasn’t ready to give up the chase, Cal thoughtfully replied, “Well then, I think we should get a good night's sleep and head toward Oklahoma first thing in the morning.”

Hap agreed, and with that, the two men finished their coffee and settled down for the evening.

Later that night, Cal was awakened by noises in the camp. He reached for his gun but quickly realized it was Hap trying to get the fire going again.

“What the hell are you doing, Hap?” Cal groaned. “It's the middle of the night.”

“We need to get going,” replied Hap. “We have a lot of ground to cover.”

This was one thing Cal held against Hap: he had little patience. Everything needed to be done immediately, without a second to lose. “I ain't going anywhere until I eat breakfast. Hear me? I need to eat before making a move,” Cal complained.

“I know that,” snapped Hap. “That's why I'm stoking the fire. We'll both eat, and then we're leaving.”

“It's a foolish thing to do, Hap,” warned Cal. “I'll leave when my horse and I can see where the hell we're going, and not before.”

Hap looked up from the coals he was tending. “Then you'll need to catch up to me. I'm leaving after I eat.”

“Fine with me,” replied Cal. “I don't expect you'll get too far in the dark.” He rolled over and went back to sleep.

Hap ate his breakfast in silence as Cal slept. It didn't surprise him. He knew how Cal was, and he didn't hold it against him. They worked well together for the most part, but impatience was part of Hap's nature. He didn't like to waste time, even if it meant doing something as “foolish” as riding out across open, unfamiliar ground in the dark.

Cal woke just before sunup. The coals were still hot, as was the coffee sitting on them. Hap was long gone. Impatient son of a bitch, thought Cal. He can't be more than a mile or two ahead of me.

He ate and broke camp. It was a cool morning, and the sky was clear. The sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon. The day looked promising as Cal rode out.

***
Hap had left a marker— a piece of bright cloth tied to the branch of a pine tree— to indicate his intended direction. Cal smiled and thought, Hap may be impatient, but at least he's conscientious. He put his horse into a lope.

It was close to noon when he caught his first sight of Hap off in the distance, about a mile away.

Hap saw Cal coming up behind him but didn't slow his pace. He let Cal catch up on his own. It took a couple of hours before Cal finally rode up alongside Hap. Hap cocked his head in Cal's direction and looked him over with a slight smile. “Your horse looks a bit winded,” was his only comment.

“My horse is fine, and I had a good night’s sleep,” Cal retorted. “That is, except for some damn fool waking me up in the middle of it.”

At that, they both smiled.

“I'd like to reach the verdigris sometime tomorrow,” Hap stated.

That was an impossibility, and Cal knew it. “We'll see,” he replied, leaving it at that.

***

For the next hundred miles, Stewart Clayton kept his mouth shut and his gun in its holster, a miraculous feat in itself. He was in survival mode, and getting back to familiar territory was his top priority. There would always be someone to rob, so for the time being, those who crossed his path didn't know how lucky they were.

As he drew closer to the Chisholm, he met a couple of drovers heading back to Texas. He rode along with them for half a day, pestering them with questions. He sought any information he could get about the murder of a female coach passenger around Wichita.

These drovers seemed to know quite a bit. Through his questioning, he discovered there was a reward on his head—over one thousand dollars and growing. The caveat was that he needed to be taken alive. Stewart easily deduced that the price on his head would be more than enough to entice a bounty hunter or two to try to pick up his trail. That unnerved him somewhat. The good thing was that his plan seemed to have worked. The drovers relayed that most thought he had made his way to Fort Scott. He had no clue that at least two had seen through his deception and were closing in on him by the minute.

Stewart was itching to relieve the two drovers of their hard-earned cash. He resisted the temptation and parted company when he learned what he needed to know. Their mothers would be very happy to see those two boys home safe and sound, thought Stewart. He almost felt good about that thought, but only for a second.

Stewart's plan was to head for the Arkansas River. He knew of an abandoned cabin along the bank that was hidden from view in dense underbrush. He had used it in the past, and it would be the perfect place to lay low until his trail grew cold. From this point forward, it would be as if he had fallen from the face of the earth. When he reached the cabin, his safety would be assured—or so he thought.

He rode on for a couple of hours, eventually catching sight of a lone drover heading south. He figured he'd catch up to the boy and ask him a few questions, playing innocent and pretending to be heading toward Texas.

As he grew closer, he hailed the young man, who turned his horse to face Stewart. “Howdy,” greeted the drover.

“Howdy yourself,” replied Stewart. “Long way from home, aren't you? And out here by yourself? That ain't too safe, you know.”

“I know,” replied the drover. “I'm itching to get home and didn't want to stay in Wichita any longer than necessary. My compadres weren't in any hurry to go, so I headed out on my own. How about you?”

Stewart could barely contain himself. A lone drover in the middle of nowhere—hell, no one would be the wiser, especially if he shot the kid. The likelihood of someone coming across the body would be slim. Just as he was about to pull his gun, the drover spoke up. “I asked you a question, mister. Since you're long in answering that one, I'll ask you another.” The kid pointed his gun at Stewart. “How much money you got?”

It took Stewart a couple of seconds to comprehend what was happening. He was almost ready to laugh when the kid pulled back the hammer on his revolver. “I ain't kidding, mister. Hand over your money.”

After the initial shock, anger surged through Stewart. Pointing his finger at the robber, he scoffed, “You're robbing me!” He poked himself in the chest for emphasis.

“Oh, you're a quick learner, aren't you?” replied the kid. “Now that you got it figured out, hand over your cash.”

“Do you have any idea who I am?” he shouted. “I'm Stewart Clayton. I should be robbing you! How dare you try to rob me. I've robbed more men than you could even count. I killed a lot of them too.”

“Well, Mister Clayton, meet your competition. I ain't a killin' man ... yet! Do as I say and throw down that pistol real slow-like, and I'll keep my reputation. Then hand over your money, or we'll no longer be competitors, if you get my drift.”

Stewart tossed his gun onto the ground in disgust. He then slowly reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bag of money, tossing it over to the kid.

“Now give me the money you have in your saddlebags,” the kid said.

“I don't have any money in my saddlebags,” protested Stewart. “You got it all.”

“You're not a very good liar, mister,” replied the kid. “If you really are Stewart Clayton, my guess is all your money isn't in this bag. I'll look myself after I shoot you if that's the way you want to play it.”

Stewart tried to think of a way out of his predicament, but the kid had the drop on him, and he was at a loss. He did have another gun in his saddlebag, so he thought he might pull a fast one on the kid. “Okay, you win, I have more money. Let me get at it.” Stewart reached back toward his bag, but the kid stopped him.

“Hold on there, mister, I don't trust you. Throw down those bags, and I'll look for myself.”

Now Stewart really was at a loss as to what to do. He finally relented and tossed the bags onto the ground. The kid dismounted and cautiously picked them up, quickly going through them with one eye on Stewart. “Well, well, what do we have here?” he questioned in mock surprise. The kid pulled out a gun. “A hold-out, and more money—lots of money. I had a hunch you might not be telling me the truth.” He dropped the gun, pulled the money out of the saddlebags, and let them fall to the ground. He held up the bag from the strongbox, moving it up and down as if to gauge its weight. “What have we here? A heavy bag that says Bank of Wichita on it. You have been a busy boy.” He took the money and stuffed it into his own saddlebags.

“You bastard. I'm going to get you for this, you little bastard,” cried Stewart. “I'm going to...”

“Shut up,” shouted the kid. “I've heard more than enough out of you. Just be thankful you're still alive. Now to show you I'm a fair man, here's what I want you to do: turn around and head back the way you came, and do it at a full gallop. Don't go back for your gun until you hear me fire a shot. If you do what I say, your gun will be here when you come back. If you so much as turn around or slow down before I fire a shot, your gun will disappear along with me. Ready, go!”

Stewart didn't move. “The hell I will. I'm Stewart Clayton. You’ve taken my money; now I suggest you ride on out of here.”

The kid aimed high and fired a shot at Stewart. The bullet tore through the tip of the crown of his hat, blowing it off his head.

Stewart quickly got the message and took off at a dead run, but he had no intention of leaving until he heard a shot. As soon as he was out of range, he would ride back to retrieve both his gun and the holdout the kid had thrown to the ground. Then he would be on the kid's tail like stink on a cowpat.

In less than half a minute, he stopped and turned. The kid was nowhere to be seen—not even a cloud of dust was in the air. Stewart rode back to retrieve his guns, searching the ground all around the spot where they had been dropped, even in the nearby brush. They were both gone!

He picked up his saddlebags and looked inside. No money and no way to get more. In a fit of rage, he threw the bags on the ground. After calming down, he climbed back in the saddle and rode out, angry at the world. He needed money if he was going to hide out for any length of time; the grub in his bags wouldn't last long. As he rode, he kept a close eye out for any sign of the kid. If he picked up his trail, he would stay on it until nightfall. Once the kid was asleep, he'd make his move. Unfortunately for Stewart, he never saw that kid again.

Stewart was entering familiar territory. He knew of a town called Gopher City that wasn't too far away, and that was where he headed. Maybe he could trade something for a gun and some grub. He still had something worth trading: the brooch he took off the woman he shot.

***

The kid had ridden ahead, veering off to the right and hiding out in a grove of cottonwoods. He knew Stewart would be hot on his trail, so he kept a close watch. Sure enough, less than an hour later, Stewart rode by without giving the grove a second glance. Once Stewart was out of sight, the kid turned and went back the way he had come. As he moved along at a steady pace, he chuckled at what he had just done. “I robbed Stewart Clayton of both his money and his pride. I can hardly believe it. The man has a reputation, and I just blew it all to hell.” The kid was pretty proud of himself.

That night, he set up camp without a fire. The last thing he wanted was for Stewart to circle back and find him due to the glow of a fire. He slept well, and in the morning, he kindled a fire only large enough to heat a small pot of coffee. He had taken close to three thousand dollars from Stewart, almost all he needed to buy the ranch he'd been dreaming of.

As luck would have it, two riders approached the kid as he was breaking camp. “Well, isn't this my lucky day? They're coming to me now,” he muttered to himself.

It was Hap and Cal. They approached the kid's camp but stopped well outside of it. Caution was never in excess. Cal called out, “Can we enter your camp?”

“What do you want?” growled the kid.

“You could start by being neighborly and honoring our request,” replied Hap. His instincts were telling him loud and clear to be extremely cautious around this one.

“I'm one and you're two,” the kid replied. “State your business, then I'll decide whether I want your company.”

“Fair enough,” answered Cal.

He wasn't about to tell the truth. Revealing to a stranger that he was a bounty hunter could get a man killed. “We're heading back to Texas and saw your camp. Thought we’d see if you needed any help. Being out here alone ain't safe, especially if you're coming from up north.”

The kid played along. “And why might that be?” he replied smugly.

The smart-ass attitude didn't sit well with Hap, and his impatience was beginning to show. “Because if you're coming back from Abilene or Wichita with a pocket full of money, a loner like you could get it taken from him pretty damn fast. That's why!”

“Well, I don't think that's going to happen to me,” replied the kid snidely.

“Oh, and just why might that be?” questioned Hap. He didn't like the kid's attitude and was just about to tell him so when the kid quickly drew his gun and boldly stated, “Because I'm the one doing the taking. Now get down off those horses. Don’t make any sudden moves, and keep your hands where I can see them.”

Hap just sat there with his jaw hanging open in disbelief. “You have got to be joking. You can't be serious?”

“Does this gun look like a joke to you, mister? I said get down off that horse, and yes, you better believe I'm deadly serious.”

This was a situation Hap and Cal had found themselves in before, and they knew how to handle it.

As Hap kept the kid distracted, Cal dismounted, keeping his horse between him and the kid. Hap turned his head to look at Cal, which caused the kid to do the same. Once the kid turned his attention to Cal, Hap drew his gun and shot the kid, hitting him square in the chest.

The kid went down, and the two men were on him in less than a heartbeat.

“You shot me, dammit, you shot me,” gasped the kid as he struggled to breathe.

“You tried to rob us; what the hell did you expect?” retorted Cal.

Hap opened the kid's checkered shirt to examine the wound. Froth was forming around the hole in his chest, and the kid's breathing was labored.

“I hit him in the lung. It doesn't look good,” stated Hap. He grabbed the kid's nearby canteen and offered him a drink.

The kid took a small swallow. “All... I wanted was... a ranch… a ranch to call my own.”

Hap was trying to be compassionate, but Cal was more direct. “We're looking for someone. Maybe you've seen him. Have you run across a man named Stewart Clayton?”

The kid smiled. “I... I robbed him. I robbed Stewart Clayton.” The kid began to cough up blood.

“When?” demanded Cal. “When?”

“Yesterday.” The kid's breathing became shallow.

Hap’s tone softened. “What's your name, son?”

“Hap... my name’s Hap,” the kid replied. That was his dying breath as he closed his eyes for the last time.

Hap kept his gaze fixed on the kid for a long moment. Then, obviously shaken, he turned his face up toward Cal. There was a tear in his eye and a quiver in his voice. “Hap? Did you hear that, Cal? His name was Hap. That's my name. We had the same name. It's like... like I shot myself.”

“Shot yourself? What the hell are you talking about?” questioned Cal. “So you had the same name; what of it?”

“I feel an attachment, Cal. I don't know how to explain it. I just know that I don't feel so good right now.”

“Hap, the kid told us he met up with Stewart Clayton yesterday. Your hunch was right, and we're getting closer by the—”

Hap interrupted. “We need to bury the kid. We need to bury Hap.”

“What?” exclaimed Cal coldly.

“I'm burying this kid, Cal,” replied Hap. “He probably wasn't really a bad kid. He just had the wrong idea about how to raise the money he needed for the ranch he wanted. We all have dreams, and we all make mistakes. Don't you have dreams, Cal?”

“Yeah, I have dreams, Hap. And right now, my dreams are about catching up with Stewart Clayton.” Cal was beginning to get irritated with Hap's behavior.

“We'll catch him, Cal. But right now, I'm burying this kid.”

There was no talking Hap out of it, so Cal pitched in, gathering stones to lay over the body.

“You want to say some words, Hap, you go right ahead. I got nothing to say.” Cal walked over to the kid's horse, pulled off the saddle and bridle, swatted it on the rump, and sent it on its way. He then grabbed the saddlebags and began to go through them.

Hap said a few words over the body and then walked over to Cal. “Maybe there's some supplies in here we can use,” Cal suggested.

He pulled out a few basics: coffee, hardtack, a bit of salted pork. Then he pulled out a small flour sack. “This doesn't feel like flour,” remarked Cal as he felt the sack. He reached inside and pulled out a big stack of bills. “Whoa, would you look at this?”

“The kid had dreams, alright—BIG dreams! And that ain’t all.” He then pulled out a sack of gold coins with the Bank of Wichita written on it.

They counted out close to four thousand dollars. Cal split three of it evenly and gave half to Hap.

He kept the sack of gold coins intact. “We'll need to make sure this gets back to the Bank of Wichita. I think I might make catching Stewart Clayton my last job,” remarked Cal as he saddled up.

Hap didn't say a word. He heeled his horse into a lope, and they rode off.

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