Read Online The Lonely Cowboy (Trace Atkins Family) by Susan Leigh Carlton - Free Book Online
Authors: Susan Leigh Carlton
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Chapter 1 The Lonely Life of a Rancher
The land office stood apart from the other buildings in the small town of Cimmarron. It had very little business here in 1873. Most of the homesteaders had given up trying to grow anything on the prairie surrounding Cimmaron. About the only thing that would grow besides cattle was rocks and the thick rooted prairie grass. Trace came out of the land office and started to climb into his buckboard. He needed to stop at the general store and pick up some oats and other supplies. Two men, their guns slung low and tied to their legs stood on the plank sidewalk.
“Mr. Clayton wants to talk to you, Atkins,” one said.
“What’s he want?”
“He wants to talk to you in his office.”
Trace followed them to the office of Jess Clayton.
What he wanted was the Rocking A Ranch. “I’ll give you $600 and a job working for me, Atkins.”
“The Rocking A isn’t for sale, Mr. Clayton. Not for any price.”
“I need that land, Atkins, and by God, I will have it. If you won’t listen to reason then I’m not going to be responsible for what happens next,” Jess thundered.
“I homesteaded the land, Mr. Clayton. I proved it up and I have improved every year since I got back from the war. I have all the papers. My blood and sweat is on every foot of it. My wife died and is buried on the Rocking A. I’m not selling to any man. Not you, not anyone.”
* * *
They came, just after midnight. Riding low and riding hard. There were six of them, silhouetted by the waning moon. He had known they would come. They came to a stop in front of the small cabin, their horses chuffing and snorted, their flanks white with perspiration from the hard ride. A mist came from their noses.
“Trace Atkins… Come out. We mean you no harm.”
No answer.
“Atkins, be reasonable. Mr. Clayton made you a reasonable offer for this miserable piece of land. Come on out and lets talk.”
No answer.
A torch was lit and thrown on the porch. Soon, bright flames were licking at the wall by the front window. The men circled the small ranch house and began shooting into the openings. Louder shots rang out, from a rifle. Two men fell from their saddle. The others regrouped, not knowing the source of the rifle shots. They turned toward the barn, deciding it must be the hiding place. They moved in that direction. Another rifle shot, another man fell from his saddle. One man shouted, “I’m getting out of here. He can pick us off one at a time. Clayton can do his own dirty work.” They turned their horses toward town, riding just as hard as they had when they were riding in.
Trace Atkins stood in the opening of the barn loft. He was not smiling. He’d had enough killing in the war. He would do what was necessary to safeguard his land. For now, he would be sleeping in the barn while he rebuilt his cabin.
* * *
After church, Trace stood talking to the preacher. “That sure was a hellfire and brimstone sermon today, Preacher.”
“Well, I just hope it does some good. Seems like there are more temptations today than ever before. I don’t know what is going to become of today’s kids.
How are you doing, Trace? I heard about your troubles with Jess Clayton. You watch your back, now hear? Ole Jess, he doesn’t give up easy.”
“I’m doing okay, Preacher. It’s awful lonely out there with no one to talk to except my horse and the cattle. It’s been that way ever since Clara died. I don’t know that’ll ever change though.”
“Have you considered getting married again?”
“Preacher, I ain’t got nothing to offer a woman. All I got is that hardscrabble homestead and it looks like I’m going to have to fight to keep it. This country is too hard and rough to bring a woman to. It just plain wears them out. Doc Taylor said Clara died from what he called the wearies. He
The land office stood apart from the other buildings in the small town of Cimmarron. It had very little business here in 1873. Most of the homesteaders had given up trying to grow anything on the prairie surrounding Cimmaron. About the only thing that would grow besides cattle was rocks and the thick rooted prairie grass. Trace came out of the land office and started to climb into his buckboard. He needed to stop at the general store and pick up some oats and other supplies. Two men, their guns slung low and tied to their legs stood on the plank sidewalk.
“Mr. Clayton wants to talk to you, Atkins,” one said.
“What’s he want?”
“He wants to talk to you in his office.”
Trace followed them to the office of Jess Clayton.
What he wanted was the Rocking A Ranch. “I’ll give you $600 and a job working for me, Atkins.”
“The Rocking A isn’t for sale, Mr. Clayton. Not for any price.”
“I need that land, Atkins, and by God, I will have it. If you won’t listen to reason then I’m not going to be responsible for what happens next,” Jess thundered.
“I homesteaded the land, Mr. Clayton. I proved it up and I have improved every year since I got back from the war. I have all the papers. My blood and sweat is on every foot of it. My wife died and is buried on the Rocking A. I’m not selling to any man. Not you, not anyone.”
* * *
They came, just after midnight. Riding low and riding hard. There were six of them, silhouetted by the waning moon. He had known they would come. They came to a stop in front of the small cabin, their horses chuffing and snorted, their flanks white with perspiration from the hard ride. A mist came from their noses.
“Trace Atkins… Come out. We mean you no harm.”
No answer.
“Atkins, be reasonable. Mr. Clayton made you a reasonable offer for this miserable piece of land. Come on out and lets talk.”
No answer.
A torch was lit and thrown on the porch. Soon, bright flames were licking at the wall by the front window. The men circled the small ranch house and began shooting into the openings. Louder shots rang out, from a rifle. Two men fell from their saddle. The others regrouped, not knowing the source of the rifle shots. They turned toward the barn, deciding it must be the hiding place. They moved in that direction. Another rifle shot, another man fell from his saddle. One man shouted, “I’m getting out of here. He can pick us off one at a time. Clayton can do his own dirty work.” They turned their horses toward town, riding just as hard as they had when they were riding in.
Trace Atkins stood in the opening of the barn loft. He was not smiling. He’d had enough killing in the war. He would do what was necessary to safeguard his land. For now, he would be sleeping in the barn while he rebuilt his cabin.
* * *
After church, Trace stood talking to the preacher. “That sure was a hellfire and brimstone sermon today, Preacher.”
“Well, I just hope it does some good. Seems like there are more temptations today than ever before. I don’t know what is going to become of today’s kids.
How are you doing, Trace? I heard about your troubles with Jess Clayton. You watch your back, now hear? Ole Jess, he doesn’t give up easy.”
“I’m doing okay, Preacher. It’s awful lonely out there with no one to talk to except my horse and the cattle. It’s been that way ever since Clara died. I don’t know that’ll ever change though.”
“Have you considered getting married again?”
“Preacher, I ain’t got nothing to offer a woman. All I got is that hardscrabble homestead and it looks like I’m going to have to fight to keep it. This country is too hard and rough to bring a woman to. It just plain wears them out. Doc Taylor said Clara died from what he called the wearies. He
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