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Short Story Fiction
Dry Well Reunion
Scott A. Gese

A man’s only son suddenly disappears. A band of outlaws are suspected. Now the hunt is on for the men who took him.

Frank Canby sat on his horse at a place known as The Crossroads. The horse nickered and pawed at the dirt, displaying more sense than Frank as it tried to shy away from the trail leading west. It wanted to head in the opposite direction, toward the safe and friendly town of Prairie View. But the horse wasn’t making the decisions, and that was not the way Frank intended to go.

He needed to travel the trail heading west.

This trail, called the “D.C.” trail, followed the rim of the treacherous Devils Canyon. A narrow chasm that split the high plateau it ran through, like a jagged open wound, cutting deep into the barren landscape. The trail continued for miles until it ended at the plateau’s abrupt edge, opening up to what was known as Striker Valley.

The D.C. trail was a dangerous and seldom-used shortcut between the top of the plateau and the valley below. It was only taken by the most adventurous or foolhardy travelers. Just before reaching Striker Valley, the trail dropped over the canyon rim. In one long, steep, rock-covered, dust-choking descent, it made its way down to the bottom and out the far end.

It was an unpleasant journey at best, concluding on a rather unfriendly road heading toward a dying little mining town called Dry Well.

The town had been built on the fortunes of an old silver mine that had yielded its last ounce of precious metal several years earlier. Once called Deep Well, it had boasted a population of nearly two thousand. The Dewey mine was the largest employer in the area. Once the silver ran out, the mine went bust, and most of the townsfolk moved on, leaving the town to lose its identity.

Those who remained began calling it Dry Well in reference to its dried-up fortunes. Frank had never been to Dry Well and had never really had a reason to go before now. It wasn’t something he was looking forward to, but today he had no choice in the matter. This was something he had to do.

Someone had taken his most prized possession, and he was about to get it back.

***

Frank was a widower who dearly loved his only son. Five years earlier, he had promised his wife, as she lay on her deathbed, that he would raise Jessie to be a decent and upright young man. He believed he had been doing a good job of it, but two months ago, Jessie suddenly disappeared. Frank had always felt something wasn’t right; it wasn’t like Jessie to just up and leave without a word. He had been following every lead he could find ever since.

***

As he pulled on the reins, Frank and his horse reluctantly headed west along the D.C. trail.

Frank was a respected businessman and the owner of the town’s gunsmith shop. He repaired all manner of pistols and rifles. His current reputation as a man who could handle the most difficult repairs was built on his past experience with the guns he now fixed for others.

This was a fact Frank was not proud of and one he had always kept to himself.

He spent a lot of time with Jessie, teaching him the finer points of gun repair and how to defend himself by drawing fast and shooting straight. Jessie had a natural talent for it and was always eager to show off his skills.

Trouble began when a man named Joe Mason and his two boys rode into Cactus Bow. They had a growing reputation that most respectable people frowned upon.

Jessie was a typically inquisitive fifteen-year-old who sometimes let his curiosity get the better of his judgment. The Mason boys had been in town for several days, and Jessie, eager to show off his skill with a handgun, managed to introduce himself to a couple of the boys who were only slightly older than him.

After a short conversation and some bragging, Jessie challenged one of them to a friendly shooting match. The Mason boy, seeing no harm in it, figured he would put this kid in his place. To his surprise, Jessie easily outshot him. That didn’t sit well with the boy. He and his brother discussed how they would get even with Jessie before leaving town. Until then, they maintained friendly appearances.

During the course of their so-called “friendship,” it became known that Jessie could read and write—skills none of the Masons possessed. This only fueled their disdain for him.

On the day the Mason gang left town, Jessie disappeared.

The Sheriff and some townsfolk figured the Masons had convinced Jessie to run off and join their gang. Frank knew his son better than anyone and was certain Jessie wouldn’t have left like that. He suspected the Mason gang was involved, and if Jessie was with them, it was against his will. This suspicion was confirmed in a note Jessie managed to slip to the teller of a bank the Masons had robbed shortly after his disappearance. The note explained his predicament and indicated where his father could be found. It eventually reached the Sheriff in Cactus Bow, who passed it on to Frank.

The Sheriff took the slip of paper to Frank's shop. “Looks like I may have been wrong about your boy,” he remarked as he handed over the note.

Frank read it several times, holding back a flood of emotions. He lifted his head from the paper. “That’s Jessie’s writing, all right. I’d know it anywhere. I’ll be heading to Dry Well first thing in the morning to get my boy.”

“If you like, I’ll round up a couple of my men, and we’ll head out with you,” offered the Sheriff.

Frank cut him off before he could continue.

“I appreciate the offer, Sheriff, but to be perfectly honest, I don’t want your help. I did my best to convince you and the people of this town that Jessie wouldn’t have run off like that. No one believed me, and no one lifted a finger to help me find him. I’ve been searching for the Mason gang on my own since the day he disappeared. You didn’t offer your help then, and I certainly don’t want it now. I’ll do this on my own.”

The Sheriff understood and didn’t take offense. “You certainly have a right to be upset, Frank, but don’t let your anger make you a fool. You can’t take on the Mason gang alone.”

“I won’t be alone,” Frank replied. “Jessie will give me a hand. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to get ready for an early start.”

He showed the Sheriff the door and locked it behind him.

Before sunrise the next morning, Frank packed his saddlebags, strapped on his best guns, and slipped his favorite rifle snugly into its scabbard. He mounted up and headed toward Devils Canyon, and beyond that, the town of Dry Well.

***

The trail along the canyon rim was misleading at best. It looked inviting at first—starting out wide and flat with plenty of tall grass and very little dust. But it was deceiving. Once Frank grew comfortable with the lay of the land, things began to change. The flat, and easy terrain gave way to a more perilous landscape of loose rocks, ruts, and plenty of dust. It soon slipped over the rim and descended down along the canyon wall. The trail headed for the bottom. It was steep and rocky, barely wide enough for two horses to pass. It wasn’t not a trail for anything on wheels. A few wagons had attempted it over the years, but it was a dangerous way to travel. Several had lost their footing and slipped off the edge. The local buzzards kept a close eye on anything that moved along the canyon trail. They were always eager to feast on horse meat whenever some unfortunate beast didn’t make the grade.

As Frank carefully navigated the trail, he was grateful he to be riding a horse and prayed he wouldn’t meet up with some fool with a wagon heading in the opposite direction. The shaded trail along the canyon wall was a bit cooler than up on the rim, and even though it was steep and treacherous, it was a welcome relief from the heat of the day. Frank used the slow pace of the cool trail to think through his plan on how he would handle the situation once he rode into in Dry Well. It would be tricky, but there was no way he would be leaving without his son. As the day’s heat gave way to the cool of night.

Frank had made it to the bottom of the canyon. He followed a small creek to within several miles of the town of Dry Well. Not wanting to ride into town at night, he decided to make camp along the creek. A decent night’s rest would do him good. He he needed to be at his very best the following day. An early start would put him in Dry Well by late morning.

As Frank entered town, he remained alert. He needed things to go smoothly, with no surprises. Main Street was unimpressive, lined with a dozen or so assorted buildings on each side. A few were empty, and many looked as if they had seen better days. Several people went about their business, but there was a noticeable lack of vitality in the air, aside from a dozen or so dogs roaming about.

One of these dogs began to nip at the heels of his horse as he rode down the street. He seriously considered putting a bullet in it, hoping it would give the others something to gnaw on other than his horse. Just as that thought crossed his mind, an older gentleman stepped into the street and took care of it for him. The pack scattered for a few minutes, but the smell of blood soon drew them back to the fresh kill. The man approached Frank with his gun still drawn.

“And just who might you be?” he asked. “This here ain’t a town that gets many visitors from your direction. Most travelers with any sense avoid the D.C. trail. What’s yer business here?”

Frank ignored the inquiries and kept moving as the stranger walked alongside him. “Thanks for getting that dog off my horse, mister. My name is Frank, Frank Canby, and I’m just passing through. Is there a place in this town where a man can wash the dust out of his throat?”

“That would be the ‘Red Horse’ saloon, last on the right. The clientele is a little rough; I’d watch my step if I were you.”

“Thanks for the warning, mister.” Frank continued on to the Red Horse, hitched his horse, and stepped lightly through the door.

The place was small and dusty. A long bar and several tables nearly filled the room. Tobacco smoke hung heavy in the air, emanating from the corner table where several men sat with a bottle of whiskey and a deck of cards. The game and conversation paused when Frank entered, and all eyes followed him to the bar.

“Have any cold beer?” Frank inquired.

The bartender gave him a long, hard look. “No such thing in these parts. Warm whiskey will have to do. If you’re looking for something cool, we got us a cellar. Ain’t nothin’ in it at the moment, but that could change. I’ve been known to toss a stranger or two down the hole if they give me any trouble… or if I decide I don’t like 'em.”

The comment prompted a few snickers from the men at the table.

“I appreciate the warning. Let’s just hope I’m a likable sort,” replied Frank.

“Yeah, let’s just hope,” the bartender said as he poured the drink.

Frank took the glass and moved to an empty table. Sitting down, he started to shuffle a deck of cards he found there. As he began to lay out the cards in front of him, one of the men at the corner table spoke up.

“You a poker player?”

“I’m not a regular at it, but I have played a hand or two,” replied Frank.

“Well, we’ve got an extra chair here if you're interested. It’s not too often we get to play for someone else’s money. We tend to get a little tired of trading our own.”

Frank considered the invitation. “I’ll make you a deal. Tell me where a man can get something to eat around here, and if you’re still around when I come back, I’ll give you boys a chance to pay for it.”

“You can get some grub right next door,” replied one of the men. “But don’t spend all your money on your belly now. We want our chance to empty your pockets.”

Frank finished laying out the cards. It was a distinctive setup for a game he and Jessie had made up some time ago. He left them spread out on the table as he got up and walked out the door.

***

Frank stepped into the small diner. The smell of coffee and beans filled the room. It was brighter than the saloon but not any cleaner, and from the decor, it was easy to see it hadn’t had a woman’s touch in quite some time.

He pulled up a chair at a table next to the window overlooking the street. The cook, a big man with greasy hair and a large mustache, stepped up to the counter. A quirly hung from his lips. He wiped his dirty hands on his grease-stained shirt and took a long drag without touching it. The smoke poured from his mouth and nose as he spoke.

“What’s your pleasure? I got coffee, beans, bacon, steak, and eggs.”

“I reckon I’ll have the coffee, steak, and eggs. Boil the coffee and burn the steak.”

“Coffee’s already boiling; that’ll be four bits,” replied the cook. “Just passing through?”

“Yup.”

“Where did you come from?”

“East.”

“Where are you headin’?”

“West.”

“Yer not very talkative, are ya?”

“Oh, I can be talkative, as long as it ain’t about my personal business.”

The cook was smart enough to know when to stop prying, and since he hadn’t had an out-of-town customer for some time, he was eager to continue the conversation. So he changed the subject. “I’ve been cookin’ here for close to twenty years through fat and lean, and right now, things are mighty lean. Been that way for quite a spell. We get more than our share of undesirable types coming through these days. I’ve a good eye for 'em, and I’d say you’re not the type.”

“You don’t say. And just what does the ‘type’ look like?” Frank inquired.

“Oh, it’s really more about how they act than what they look like. You know, loud-mouthed, cocky, and looking for trouble. That type,” replied the cook. “As for you, I can tell you’re looking for something alright. Not sure what it is, but I know it ain’t trouble.”

Just then, four horsemen rode down the street. They pulled up right next to the diner in front of the Red Horse saloon. Three surly-looking men and a young boy dismounted. It was Jessie! Frank almost jumped out of his seat, but he knew he needed to stay calm and play this hand the way he had laid it out in his mind. He recognized that staying calm would give him an advantage, and he needed every bit of that. He sat back and took notice of the three men as they walked into the saloon with Jessie.

“Now there,” remarked the cook. “That’s exactly what I’m talkin’ about. Those Mason boys are nothing but trouble. Been here for a couple months now stirring things up. It’s a genuine shame the way they treat that kid. No better than a dog I tell you.”

The comment only increased Frank’s determination to put an end to this nightmare here and now. He excused himself, handed the cook a dollar and headed for the door.

***

As the Mason boys stepped into the Red Horse, they walked past the table where Frank had laid out the cards. When Jessie approached the table, he stopped dead in his tracks, staring at the cards in disbelief. He recognized that layout, and it gave him a sense of renewed hope to know his father might be nearby. Where was he? Had he missed him? Was he already gone? Or were the cards laid out as a signal for him to be ready?

“Get moving there, boy,” growled the gruff old man behind Jessie, reaching out to give him a hard shove that sent him stumbling up to the bar.

He barked his orders at the bartender. “Give me a whiskey and the boy here his usual.”

The bartender set the drinks down in front of the old man. “One whiskey and one water.”

The old man replied, “Can’t get the boy to drink a man’s drink; all he ever wants is plain water. Maybe we should give it to him in a bowl and let him lap it up. If the little whelp didn’t know how to read and write, I’d have put him down by now. But since none of us boys ever learned how, he comes in handy every now and again. I guess we’ll keep hold of him for a time. Although I might just want to hobble him if he don’t quit tryin’ to run off.” The old man punctuated his words with a hard slap on the back of Jessie’s head. “Ain’t that right, boy?” he declared with a laugh.

“Now is that any way to treat the boy?” came a voice from behind the old man.

All eyes turned to the door. The old man and Jessie both turned, and before a word could be spoken in reply, Jessie whipped the gun out of the old man's left holster and fired off two shots at the two Mason boys sitting at the table. The kid was fast and accurate. The men barely had time to draw their weapons before bullets slammed into their chests.

The three poker players at the corner table dove for cover. The bartender pulled a sawed-off shotgun from under the bar, but Frank removed any thought from his mind about using it by putting a bullet between his eyes. This gave the old man time to draw his other pistol. He grabbed Jessie around the neck and stepped behind him, holding the gun to Jessie’s head as he made his demand.

“You and the boy drop your guns, or I’ll put a bullet in his head right now… and get away from that door. I’m headin’ out.”

Jessie dropped his gun, but Frank had come too far and searched too long to let this hombre get away. There was no way he would allow Jessie out of his sight.

The old man threatened Frank again. “I’m tellin’ you one last time. Drop the gun or the boy gets a bullet.”

Frank had never expected the old man to take the coward's way out, and he didn’t want to risk Jessie getting hurt, so he reluctantly set his gun down, gave Jessie a reassuring wink, and moved away from the door.

The old man backed out of the saloon, keeping Jessie between him and Frank. As they stepped onto the boardwalk, both he and Jessie turned to see something just out of Frank's field of view. The old man removed the gun from Jessie’s head as if to defend himself. When he did, Jessie broke free and dove back into the saloon. A single loud blast was heard, and the old man was thrown from his feet, landing in a heap just off the walkway.

Jessie got up off the floor. Even though he was almost as tall as his father, he ran and jumped into Frank's arms. They were both grateful to be alive.

“I knew you’d come for me. I knew you would,” cried Jessie.

“I would have searched heaven and hell for you, son. I would have searched 'til the day I died, and then some.”

They both walked outside to see who had fired the fatal shot at the old man.

There in the doorway of the diner stood the cook, a smile on his face and a shotgun cradled in his arms.

“I knew you were looking for something, mister; I just didn’t know what it was… ‘til now.”

© Copyright 2024 by Scott A. Gese All Rights Reserved.

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