A Debt To Pay
By
J. Robert Whittle
Joyce Sandilands
Published by Whitlands Publishing at Smashwords
This novel can also be found in the print and ebook versions of:
Yesterdays – A Collection of Short Stories
Illustrations by Simone Padur
Ebook ©2011 J. Robert Whittle and Joyce Sandilands
Electronic Edition (Smashwords) ISBN: 978-0-9869408-4-2
This book is a work of fiction. To enhance the story, real places have sometimes been used, although the characters are fictional and are in no way intended to represent any person living or dead.
Smashwords Edition License Notes
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Whitlands Publishing Ltd.
Victoria, BC Canada
Tel: 250-477-0192
Table of Contents
A Debt to Pay
A Debt to Pay
Chapter 1
He had the appearance of a scrawny, rough-looking drifter when he rode his broken-winded old mare into the yard at the mighty Circle X Ranch that morning during spring roundup. It was hotter than usual for this time of year and, the group of cowboys waiting in the yard for the foreman’s orders, jeered as they stood watching him ride in.
“Better climb off that bag of bones kid, before it collapses!” a red-bearded cowboy commented, causing a ripple of laughter to run through the group as they watched the young saddle bum.
Gilly Thompson sat perfectly still in the work-worn old saddle. Only his eyes moved, wandering slowly over the big-mouthed cowboy as he contemplated his next course of action. He squinted against the sun and slowly raised his hand to adjust his battered hat, before slipping to the ground. Almost imperceptibly, he flicked the tie down off the hammer of the big black, Colt forty-five on his hip but the action was obvious to the hard-nosed rangemen.
“Easy kid,” one muttered, spitting a long stream of tobacco juice into the dust, “ain’t no need for gunplay.”
“Maybe you should tell that to hairy-lips over there,” Gilly hissed.
“Why did you come here kid?” the old man insisted.
“Looking for a job.”
“And you think this is the ideal way to make an application?”
“Mister, it ain’t none of your damn business.”
“Well it sure as hell looks to be my business,” Jake Curry, the red beard, spoke up. “It was only a joke and I sure don’t plan to kill over it.”
Gilly pushed his hat back on his head and, without a backward glance, walked off toward the corral with his horse in tow.
The older man shook his head, breathing a sigh of relief, and then, at a safe distance, went after the stranger. A voice yelling orders quickly dispersed the rest of the crew.
“So you’re looking for a job?” he shouted, letting his eyes wander first over the young man and then to his mount.
“Yes sir.”
“How long since you ate kid?”
“Not for awhile sir.” Gilly hated the reference to his age, but he had long ago learned to let it go by.
“Then get your arse into the cookhouse. After you’ve had some grub, cut yourself a horse out of the corral and head for that big white-topped mountain over there.” He pointed to one of the highest peaks in the mountain range known as the Snowy Mountains. “You’ll find us over that way and don’t be all day.”
Gilly nodded then went to find the cookhouse. He was hired and the man had asked him nothing of his past, not even his name.
“New man?” the cook grunted through his whiskers, cocking an eyebrow as Gilly entered his domain. “Better eat kid, ya look like you’ve missed a few meals, then scoot up to Panama Flats. Fred ain’t got too much patience at roundup time.”
“Is Fred the foreman?”
“Yup, are you Indian or Mex?”
“Neither, I’m a Canadian.”
Cook’s head swung around to stare sharply at Gilly, now tucking into his first meal in three days, frowning as he tried to grasp just what a Canadian was. He silently turned back to his task of cleaning up the breakfast dishes. Eating noisily, Gilly made short work of the meal barely noticing its palatability. Getting up to leave, he stopped and reached across the bare tabletop to scoop a leftover piece of steak between two thick wedges of dark bread. Then, without a word, he left the cookhouse. Grinning, Two Puffs, the long-time cook at Circle X, was well aware Gilly had taken the food and, he even approved, proving to the old cook the young man was no stranger to fending for himself.
Shaking the water from his hands, Two Puffs went over to the door and watched as the young man unsaddled his horse, fondly giving the animal a pat before turning it loose in an empty corral. Then, spotting a bucket of feed, he poked it through the rails and stood for a moment watching as his horse ate hungrily.
“Well I’ll be damned, he’s a farm kid,” the cook muttered, going over to the fire and lighting a small stick. Returning to the doorway, he touched the light to his pipe.
Gilly removed a lariat from his saddle and holding it loosely in his right hand, stooped through the rails of the neighbouring corral, and slowly advanced toward the herd of range-broken horses. His eyes darted cunningly over their conformation before he made his selection. Suddenly, a blue-grey gelding went on the attack, head extended and mouth wide open as if intending to bite, he raced at the stranger. Gilly stepped nimbly aside and swung his loop as the old cook grabbed for his pipe in alarm, but the rope settled smoothly over the pony’s neck.
“That kid ain’t no greenhorn,” he muttered admiringly, taking a second puff on the pipe before stuffing it into his pocket and disappearing back into the cookhouse.